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•iV. DOUItl^li 


BY MRS. OLIPHANT 


17 TO 27 VaNdeW/ter St 

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library, Pocket Edition, Issue* 


The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, Issued Tri- weekly: Uy subscription ^BiTper annum, 
^righted 1S85 by George Muuro — Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates Aug. 12, 1885. 



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THE- 


New York Fireside Companion. 


Essenliallf a Paper for tfie Home Circle. 


PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 
living fiction writers. 

Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ever published, and its spe- 
cialties are features peculiar to this journal. 


A Fashion Article, embracing the newest modes, prices, etc., by a noted 
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The Answers to Correspondents contain reliable information on every con- 
ceivable subject. 


TERMS:— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one year, 
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single copies at $2.50 each. We will be responsible for remittances sent in 
Registered Letters or by Post-office Money Orders. Postage free. Specimen 
copies sent free. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 


F. 0. Boz 3751. 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE 


By MRS. OLIPHANT. 






NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 







# 


I 





V 







THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


BOOK 1. 


THE FIRST DAV. 

1 WAS going home from the village, and it was an autumn even- 
ing, just alter sunset, when every crop was cut and housed in our 
level country, and when the fields of stubble and browned grass had 
nothing on them, except, here and there, a tree. They say our bare 
fiats, in Cambridgeshire, are neither picturesque nor beautiful. I 
can not say for that— but 1 know no landscape has ever caught my 
eye like the long line of sunburnt, wiry grass, and the great, wide 
arch above, with all its shades ot beaudful color. There were no 
hedgerows to skirt the path on which 1 was, and 1 saw nothing be- 
tween me and the sky, save a solitary figure stalking along the 
highway, and in the other direction the clump of trees which sur- 
rounded Coltisw’oode; the sky, in the west, was still full ot the col- 
ors of the sunset, and from the horizon it rose upward in a multi- 
tude of tints and shades, the orange aud red melting into a rosy 
flush which contrasted, for a while, and then fell into the sweet, 
calm, peaceful tone ot the full blue. In the time of the year, and 
the look ot the night, there was alike that indescribable composure 
und satisfaction which are in the sunny evenings after harvest. The 
work was done, the day was fading, everything was going home; 
the rooks sailed over the sky, and the laborer trudged across the 
moor. Labor was over and provision made, and the evening and 
the night, peace, and refreshment, and rest w^ere coming for every 
man. 1 do not suppose 1 notictd this at the time, but I have the 
strongest impression of it all in my remembrance now. 

And 1 was passing along, as 1 always did, quickly, and, perhaps, 
v.dth a firmer and a steadier step than was usual to girls of my years, 
swinging in my hand a bit of briony, which for the sake of its 
beautiful berries 1 w’'as carrying home, but which stood a good 
chance of being destroyed before w^e got there — not taking leisuie to 
look much about me, thinking of nothing particular, with a little 
air of the superior, the lady of the manor, in my independent car- 
riage— a little pride of proprietorship in my firm footstep 

1 was going home— when there suddenly appeared two figures 
before me, advancing on my w^ay. 1 say two figures, because in 
our country everything stands out so clear upon the great universal 
background ot sUy, and I could not so truly say it was a man aud 


4 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


a boy, as two dark outlines clearl}’’ marked and separated from the 
low, broad level ot the country, and the arch ot heaven, which now 
appi cached upon me. 1 can not help an unconscious estimate of 
character from the tricks of gesture and carriage, which, perhaps, 
could not have been so visible anywhere else as here, upon this flat, 
unbroken road. Oueot these figures was a stooping and pliant one, 
with a sort ot sinuous twisting motion, noiseless and sidelong, as if 
his habit was to twist and glide through ways too narrow to admit 
the passage of a man; the other form was that of a boy— a slight 
figure, which, to my perfect health and girlish courage, looked timid 
and hesitating — thfe brightness of the sky behind cast the faces of 
the strangeis into shadow— but my eye was caught by the unfamil- 
iar outlines; they were strangers, that was sure. 

We gradually approached nearer, for 1 was walking quickly, 
though their pace was slow; but before we met, my thoughts had 
wandered oft from them, and 1 was greatly astonished by the sudden 
address which brought me to an abrupt pause before them. “ \oung 
lady,” the man said, with an awkward bow, “ what is your name?” 

1 was a country girl, and utterly beyond the reach of fear from 
impertinence. I was my father’s daughter, moreover, and loftily 
persuaded that nothing disrespecfutl could approach me. 1 an- 
swered immediately with a little scorn of the question — for to be 
unknown in my own country was a new sensation — ” 1 am Hester 
Southcote, of Cottiswoode,” and having said so, was about to pass 
on. 

“Ah, indeed! it is just as 1 thought, then!” said the stranger, 
wheeling his young companion round, so as to place him side by 
side with me. ” We are going back to Cottiswoode— we will have 
the pleasure of your company. I am quite happy we have met.” 

But my girlish disdain did not annihilate the bold intruder; it only 
brought a disagreeable smile to his mouth which made him look still 
more like some dangerous unknown animal to me. 1 was not very 
well versed in society, nor much acquainted with the world, but I 
knew by intuition that this person, though quite as well dressed as 
any one 1 had ever seen, was not a gentleman; he M’as one of those 
nondescripts whom you could not respect either tor wealth or pov- 
erty — one of those few people you could be disrespectful to, with- 
out blushing lor yourself. 

“ Do you want anything at Cottiswoode?” 1 asked accordingly, 
not at all endeavoring to conceal that 1 thought my new companion 
a very unsuitable visitor at my father’s house 

“Yes! we want a great deal at Cottiswoode,” said the stranger, 
significantly; and as i raised my head in wonder and indignation, 1 
could not but observe how the boy lagged behind, and how his 
companion constantly attempted to drag him forward close to me. 

With an impatient impulse, 1 gathered up the folds of my dress 
in my hand, anil drew another step apart. 1 was the only child 
of a haughty gentleman. 1 did not know what it was to be ad- 
dressed in the tone of a superior, and 1 was fully more annoyed 
than angry— but with a young girl’s grand and innocent assumption, 
1 held my head higher. ” You are not aware whom you are speak- 
ing to,” 1 said, proudly; but 1 was very much confused and dis- 
concerted when the stranger answered me by a laugh; and the laugh 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


was still less pleasant than the smile, for there was irritation minglecl 
with its sneer. 

“lam perfectly aware whom 1 am speaking to, miss,’' he said„ 
rather more coarsely than he had yet spoken; “better aware than 
the young lady is who tells me so, or than my lord himself among 
the trees yonder,” and he pointed at Cottiswoode to which we were 
dravsing near. “But you’ll find it best to be friends,” he contin- 
ued, after a moment, in a tone intended to be light and easy, “ look 
what 1 have brought you - here’s this pretty young gentleman is your 
cousin.” 

“ My cousin!” 1 said with great astonishment, “ 1 have no cousin.” 

‘‘ Oh, no! I dare say!” said the man with such a sneer of insin- 
uation, that in my childish passion 1 could have struck him almost. 
“ I’d disown him, out and out, it 1 were you.” 

“ What do you mean, sir?” 1 said, stopping short and turning round 
upon him; then my ej^’d caught the face of the boy, whch was natu- 
rally pale, but now greatly flushed tvilh shame and auger, as 1 
thought; he looked shrinking and timid and weak, with his deli- 
cate blue-veined temples, his long, fair hair, and refined mild face, 
i felt myself so strong, so sunburnt, so ruddy, and with such a 
strength and wealth of life, in presence of this delicate and hesitat- 
ing boy. “ What does he mean,” I repeated, addressing him, “ does 
he mean that I say what is not true?” 

“ 1 will tell you what I mean, my dear young lady,” said the 
man suddenly changing his tone, ' ‘ 1 mean what 1 have just been to 
tell your amiable father; though, of course, both yourself and the 
good gentleman have your own reasons for doubting me— i mean 
that this is your cousin, Mr. Edgar Southcote, the son of your fa- 
ther’s elder brother, Brian Southcote, who died in India ten years 
ago — that’s what 1 mean!” 

The man had his eyes fixed upon me with a broad full gaze, as if 
he expected a contradiction; but, of course, after hearing this, 1 
did not care in the least how the man lobked, or what he had to do 
with it. 1 turned very eagerly to look at the boy. 

“ Are jmu really my cousin?” said 1, “ have you just come from 
India? why did we never know before? and your name is Edgar? 
a great many of the Southcotes have been called Edgar. How old 
are you? 1 never knew 1 had a cousin, or any near friends, and 
neither did papa; but 1 have heard everybody talk of Uncle Brian. 
Poor boy! you have no falher — you are not so happy as i — ” 

But to my great amazement, and just at the moment 1 was hold- 
ing out my hand to him, and was about to say that my father would 
love him as he did me — my new cousin, a boy, a man— he ought to 
have had more spirit! — suddenly burst into a great fit of tears, and 
in the strangest passionate manner, cried out to the man, “1 can 
not bear it, yaville — Saville, take me away.” 

1 had no longer any curiosity or care about the man; but 1 was 
very much surprised at this, and could not understand it — and 1 
was a little ashamed and indignant, besides, to see a boy cry. 

“ What is the matter?” 1 askerl again, with some of my natural 
Imperiousness, “ why do you cry— is anything wrong? is your 
name Edgar Southcote, and yet you cry like a child? do you not 
know we are called the proudest house in the country? and what 


6 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


is this man doin;^, or what does he want here? why should he take 
you away? 3"ou ought to be at Cottiswoode if you are Edgar boulh- 
€Ote— what do you mean?” 

” Cheer up. Master Edgar— your cousin is quite right, you ought 
to be at Cottiswoode, and nowhere else, my boy,” said the man, 
giving him such a blow on the shoulders, in encouragement, that 
the delicate boy trembled under it. ” Why, where is your spirit? 
come, come, since the young lady’s owned you, we’ll go straight to 
the old gentleman again; and you’ll see what papa will say to you, 
miss, when he sees what you bring him home.” 

] did not answer, but turned away my head from this person w’ho 
filled me with disgust and annoyance; then their slow pace roused 
me to impatience. 1 was always a tew steps before them, for Sav- 
ille’s gliding pace was uniformly slow, and the pale boy, who was 
called my cousin, lingered still more ttian his companion. He 
never answered me— not a word, though 1 put so many questions 
to him, and he seemed so downcast and sad, so unlike a boy going 
home— so very, very unlike me, that 1 could not understand him. 
1 was so very eager to return to tell my father, and to ask him if 
this was truly an Edgar Soulhcote, that our slow progress chafed 
me the more. 

We were now drawing very near to Cottiswoode; ever}-^ dark 
leaf of the trees was engraved on the flush of many colors which 
still showed in the sky the road where the sun had gone down— 
and among them rose my father’s house, the home of our race, with 
its turrets rising gray upon the sky like an old chateau of France 
or Scotland, w ithout a hill in sight to harmonize that picturesque 
architecture; nothing but the elm trees and the olive shade of the 
great walnut, wdth the flat m-oors and sunburnt grass, running 
away in vast level lines into the skj'. Cottiswoode, the house of 
all our ancestors, where every room was a chapter in the history of 
our name, and every Southcote of renown still lived upon the an- 
cient W’alls— 1 could not fancy one of us approaching, without a 
flush and tremor, the family dwelling-place. But Edgar bouth- 
cote’s pale cheek was not warmed by the faintest color — 1 thought 
he looked as if he must faict or die — he no longer glanced at me or 
at his companion; and when 1 turned to him, 1 saw only the pale 
eyelids with their long lashes, the drooping head, and foot that fal- 
tered now at every step— a straiage boy! could he be of our blood 
after all? 

The front ol Cottisw’oode was somewhat gloomy, for there was 
only a carriage-road sweeping throrrgh the trees, and a small shrub- 
bery thickly planted with evergreens before the great door. When we 
were near enough, 1 saw my father pacing up and down hurriedly 
through the avenue of elms w'hich reached irp to the shrubbery. 
“When 1 saw him, I became still more perplexed than before — my 
father was reserved, and never betrayed himself or his emotions to 
the common eye; 1 could not comprehend why he was here, show- 
ing an evident agitation and disturbed entirely out of his usual 
calm. 

And as quickly as I did, the stranger noticed him. This man 
fixed liis eve upon my father with a sneer, which roused once more, 
to the utmost, my girlish passion. 1 could not tell what it meant, 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


r 

but there vras an insinualion in it, which stung me beyond hearing,, 
especially when 1 saw the trouble on my falher’s face, which was 
generally so calm. 1 hurried forward, anxious to be first, yet in- 
voluntarily waiting for my strange companions. The man, too, 
quickened his pace a little, but the boy lagged behind so drearily, 
and drooped his head with such a pertinacious sadness— though the 
very elm-trees of Coltiswmode were rustling their leaves above him. 
—that in my heat, and haste, and eagerness, 1 knew not what to do. 

“Papa!” I said anxiously; my father heard me, and turned 
round with a sudden eager start, as though he was glad of my com- 
ing; but when he met my glance, and saw how 1 was accompanied, 
1 can not describe the flash of resentment, of haughty inquiry, ami 
bitterness that shone from my father’s eye— T saw it, but was too 
much excited to ask for an explanation. “Papa!” I cried again, 
springing forward upon his arm, “this is Edgar Southcote, my 
cousin— did they tell you? 1 am sorry he does riot seem to care for 
coming home, but he has been all his life in India, 1 suppose — Uncle 
Brian’s son, papa— and his name is Edgar! did you send him to 
meet me? tell him you are glad that he has come home; look at Cot- 
tisw’oode, Edgar — dear Cottiswoode, where all the Southcotes lived 
and died. AY hat ails him? 1 believe he will faint. Papa— papa, 
let the boy know he is welcome honje!” 

“Hester!” said my father in an ominous cold tone, “restrain 
your feelings— I have no reason to believe there is an Edgar South- 
cote in existence. 1 do not believe my brother Brian left a son — 1 
can not receive this boy as Edgar Southcote— he may be this man’s 
son for aught 1 know. ’’ 

The boy’s wan face woke up at these words; he shook his long 
hair slightly back upon the faint wind, and raised his eyes full ot 
sudden light and courage. 1 understood nothing ot my father’s 
reluctance to acknowledge the stranger. 1 pleaded his cause with 
all my heart. 

“ He is not this man’s son,” 1 exclaimed eagerly, “ papa, he is a 
gentleman! look, he has been so sad and downcast till now, but he 
wakes when you accuse him — he is an orphan, poor boy, poor boy! 
say he is welcome home.” 

“ You had best,” said Saville, and the contrast between my own 
voice of excitement, and these significant tones, with their constant 
sneer and insinuation ot evil, struck me very strangely, “ the young 
lady is wise— it is your best policy, 1 can tell you, to receive him 
well in his own house.” 

Aly father’s haughty face flushed with an intolerable sense of in- 
sult, and 1 saw Edgar shrink as if something had stung him. “ Hes- 
ter, my'- love, leave me!” said my father, “ I will Seal with this fel- 
low alone. Go, keep your kind heart for your friends. 1 tell you 
these pretensions are false — do you hear me, child?” 

1 never doubted my father before; when I looked from his face 
which was full of passion, yet clouded with an indesciihable shadowr 
of doubt, to the insolent mocking of the man beside him, I grew be- 
wildered and uncertain; did my father believe himself? Yet I 
neither could nor would put faith in the ( Icier stranger. 1 had been 
so constantly with my father, and had so much license given me^.* 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


S 

that 1 could uot obey him; and 1 did what 1 have always done— I 
suddenly obeyed my own sudden impulse, and turned to the boy. 

“ 1 do not believe w'hat he will say,” I said rapidly, “ but 1 will 
trust you; are you Edgar Southcote? are you my cousin? you will 
not tell a lie.” 

The boy paused, hesitated: but he had raised his eyes to mine, 
and he did not withdraw them. His face crimsoned over with a 
delicate yet deep flush like a girl’s — then he grew pale— and then he 
said slowdy— 

” 1 can not tell a lie— my lather’s name W'as Brian ISouihcole, 1 
am Edgar; 1 will not deny my name.” 

1 cried out triumphantly, ” How, papa!” but my father made an 
impatient gesture commanding me aw'ay; it was so distinctly a com- 
mand now, that i w'as awed and dared not disobey him. 1 turned 
awa}^ very slowly through the thick evergreens, looking back and 
bmrering as 1 w’ent. 1 w’as just about to turn round by the great 
Portugal laurel, which would have hid from me these three figures 
standiug together among the elm-trees and against the sky, when 
my fattier called me to him again. 1 returned toward him gladly, 
for 1 had been very reluctant to go away. 

“Hester, these gentlemen will accompany you,” he said, with a 
contemptuous emphasis, “ show them to my library, and 1 wdll 
come to you.” 

1 can not tell to what a pitch my anxiety and excitement had risen 
— it was so high, at least, that without question or remark, only 
very quickly and silently, 1 conducted my companions to the house, 
and introduced them to my tather's favorite room, the library. It 
■was a very long, large room, rather gloomy in the greater part of it, 
but with one recessed and window’^ed corner as bright as day. !My 
life had known no studies nnd few pleasures that were not asso- 
ciated with tins un-bright corner, with its cushioned window-seat 
and beautiful oriel. 

AVhen we entered, it was almost twilight by my father’s writing- 
table, behind which was the great window with the fragrant walnut 
foliage overshadowing it like a miniature forest — but li clear, pale 
light, the evening blessing — light, assweet and calm as heaven itself, 
shone in upon my little vase of faint, sweet roses — roses gathered 
from a tree that blossomed all the year through, but all the 5^ear 
through was sad and faint, and never came to the flush of June. 
Edgar iSouthcote sunk wearily into a chair almost by the door of 
the" library, but yaville, whom 1 almost began to hate, bustled 
about at once from one window to another looking at everything. 

“ Fine old room — I’d make twm of it,” said this fellow; “ have 
down a modern architect, my boy, and make the place so^melhing 
like. Eh, Edgar! wdiat, tired, you had better pluck up a spirit, or 
how am 1 to manage this worthy, disinterested uncle of yours?” 

1 could not let the man think 1 had heard him, but left the room 
to seek my father— what could he mean? 1 met my father at the 
door, and with a slight wave of his hand bidding me follow^ him, 
he went on before me to the dining-jiarlor, tlie only other room we 
used; my excitement had deepened into painful anxiety — something 
was wrong — it was a new thought and a new emotion to me. 

“ ^yhat is the matter, papa?” 1 said, anxiously, “ what is wrong? 


THE DA^S OF MY LIFE. 


D 


■what has happened? do you think this is not my cousin, or are you 
angry that he has come? Father, 5mu loved my Uncle Brian, do 
you not love his son?” 

” Hester!” said my father, turning away his troubled face from 
my gaze and the light, ‘‘ 1 will not believe that this boy is my 
brother Brian’s son.” 

” But he says he is, papa,” 1 answered, with eagerness; 1 did not 
believe in lying, and Edgar &outhcote’s pale face was beyond the 
possibility of untruth. 

” It is worth his while to say it,” my father exclaimed huiriedly; 
then a strange spasm of agitation crossed his face— he turned to me 
again as if with an irrestrainable impulse to confide his trouble to 
me. “ Hester! Brian was my elder brother,” he said in a low. 
quick whisper, and almost stealthily. I did not comprehend him. 
1 was only a child — the real cause of his distress never occurred to 
me. 

” 1 know it would be very hard to take him home to Cottiswoode 
for a Southcole, and then to find out he w’as not Uncle Brian’.’? 
son,” 1 said, looking up anxiously at my father, “ and you know 
better than 1, and remember my uncle; but papa — 1 believe him— 
see! 1 knew it— he is like that picture there!” 

jMy father turned to the picture with a start of terror; it was an 
Edgar Southcote I was pointing to — a philosopher; one of the few 
of our house, who loved wisdom better than houses or lands, one 
who had died eaily after a sad short life. My father’s face burned 
as he looked at the picture; the refined visionary head drooping over 
a book, and the large delicate eyelids with their long lashes were so 
like, so very like!— it struck him in a moment. “'Papa, 1 believe 
him,” 1 repeated very earnestly. My father started from me, and 
paced about the room in angry agitation. 

“ 1 have trained you to be mistress of Cottis\;\ oode, Hester,” he 
said, when he returned to me. ” 1 have taught you from your 
cradle to esteem above all things jmur name and your race— and 
now, and now, child- -do you not understand me? — it this boy is 
Brian’s son, Cottiswoode is his!” 

It was like a flash of sudden lightning in the dark, revealing tor 
an instant everything around, so terribly clear and visible — 1 could 
not speak at first. 1 felt as if the withering light had struck me, 
and 1 shivered and put forth all my strength to stand erect and still; 
then 1 felt my face burn as if my veins were bursting. ” This was 
what he meant!” 

‘‘ What who meant? Who?” cried my father. 

‘‘You believe he is Edgar Southcote, papa!”, said 1, ‘‘ you believe 
him as 1 do; I see it in your face— and the man sneers at you— you, 
father! because it is your interest to deny the boy. Let us go away 
and leave him Cottiswoode it it ishis; you would not do him wrong, 
you would not deny him his right — father, father, come away!” 

And 1 saw him — a man whose calm was never broken by the 
usual excitements of life, a man so haughty and reserved that he 
never showed his emotions even to me — 1 saw him dash his clinched 
hand into the air with a fury and agony terrible to see. 1 could not 
move nor speak, I only stood and gazed at him, following his rapid 
movements as he went and came in his passion of excitement, pac- 


10 


THE DAYS OE HY LIFE. 


ing about the room; the eveiy-day good order and arrangement of 
everything around us; the calm light of evening, wliich began to 
darken; the quiet house where there was no sound of disturbance, 
but only the sotlened hum of tranquil life— the trees rustling with- 
out, the grass growing, and night corning sottly down out of the 
skies; nothing sympathized with his fiery passion, except his daugh- 
ter who stood gazing at him, half a woman, half a child— and noth- 
ing at all in all the world sympathized with me. 

Very gradually he calmed, and the paroxysm w’as over; then my 
lather came to me, and put his hands on rn.y shoulders, and looked 
into my strained eyes; 1 could not liear his gaze, though 1 had been 
gazing at him so long, and, thick and heavy, my tears began to fall ; 
then he stooped over me and kissed my brow. “ My disinherited 
child!” that was all he said— and he lelt me and went away. 

Then 1 sat down on the carpet by the low window, and cried— 
cried ” as it my heart were breaking,” but hearts do not break that 
get relief in such a flood of child’s tears. 1 felt something in my 
hand as 1 put it up to my w’et eyes. It was the bit of briony which 
1 had carried unwittingly a long, long way, through all my first 
shock of trouble. Yes! there were the beautiiul tinted berries iu 
their clusters uninjured even by my hand — but the stem was crushed 
and broken, and could support them no longer; the sight ol it 
roused me out ot my vague but bitter distress — 1 spread it out upon 
my hand listlessly, and thought of the low hedge from which 1 had 
pulled it, a bank of flowers tne whole summer through. It was 
oirr own laud — oicn land— was it ours no longer now? 

lu a very short time, I was disturbed by steps aud voices, and 
iny father came into the room w’itn Edgar and his disagreeable com- 
panion; then came 'Whitehead, bringing in the urn and tea tray, 
and I had to make tea for them. 1 did not speak at all, neither did 
my new cousin; and my father was polite, but very lofty and re- 
served, and behaved to Saville with such a grand courtesy, as a 
prince might have shown to a peasant; the man was overpowered 
and silenced by it, 1 saw, and could no longer be insolent, though 
lie tried. My father took his cupol tea very slowly and deliberate- 
ly, and then he rose and said, ‘‘1 am quite at your service,” and 
Saville followed him out of the room. 

We two were left together; my new cousin was about my own 
age 1 thought— though indeed he was older — hut wliile I had the 
courage of health and high spirits, of an unreproved and almost un- 
controlled childhood, the boj’’ was timid as a weak frame, a suscepti- 
ble temper, and a lonely orphanhood could make him. We sat far 
apart from each other, in the large dark room, aud did not speak 
a word; a strange sudden bitterness and resentment against this 
intruder had come to my heart. 1 looked with contempt and dis- 
like at his slight form aud pallid face. 1 raised my own head with 
a double pride and haughtiness— this was the heir of Cottiswoode 
and of the Soulheotes, this lad whose eye never kindled at sight of 
Ihe old house— and 1 was disinherited! 

It grew gradually dark, but i sat brooding in my bitterness aud 
anger, and never thought of getting lights. The trees were stir- 
ring without, in the faint night wind which sighed about Cottis- 
vvoode, and I (ould see the pensive stars coming out one by one on 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


11 

the vast breadth of sky- -but nothing stirred within. Edgar was at 
one end of the room, 1 at the other — he did not disturb me and I 
never spoke to him, but involuntarily all this time. 1 was watching: 
him— he could not raise his hand to his head but 1 saw it; he could 
not move upon his chair without my instant observation; for all so 
dark as the room was, and so absorbed in mj' own thoughts as 
was 1. 

At length my heart beat to see him rise and approach toward me, 
L was templed to spring up, to denounce and defy the intruder, and 
leave him so— but 1 did not — 1 only rose and waited for him, lean- 
ing against the window. He came up with his soit step stealing: 
through the darkness. “ Cousin,” he said, in a low voice, w^hiclt 
sounded very youthful, j^et had a ring of manhood in if, too, 
” Cousin, it is not Edgar Southcote who has come to Cottisvvoode, 
but a great misfortune— what am I to do?— you took pait with me, 
you believed me, Hester; tell me what I am to do to make myself 
something else than a calamity to my uncle and to you?” 

He spoke very earnestly, but his voice did not touch my heart, it; 
only quickened ‘my resentment. ” Do nothing except justice,” said 
I, in my girlish, passionate way. ” We are Southcotes, do you 
think we can not bear a misfortune? but you do not know your 
race, nor what it is. If you are the heir of Cottiswoode, do yoa 
think anything you could do would make my father keep wiiat is 
not his? No, you can do nothing except justice. My father is not 
a man to be pitied.” 

” Nor do 1 mean to pity him,” said the boy, gently, “ 1 respect 
my father’s brother, though my father’s brother doubts me. Will 
you throw me off then? you judge of me, perhaps, by my com- 
panion. Ah! that would be just; 1 do not care for justice. Cousin 
Hester; 1 want that which you reject so bitterly— pity, compassion, 
love!” 

‘‘ Pity is a cheat,” said 1, quoting words which ray father had 
often said, ” and when you have justice you will not need pity.” 

He stood looking at me for a moment, and though my pride 
would not give way, my heart relented. ‘‘ When L have justice— is 
that when I have my father’s inheritance?” said Edgar, slowl}’^: 
” that will not give rue a father, or a mother, or a friend. I will 
need pity more, and not less, than uowl” 

He did not speak again, and 1 could not answer him; no, 1 couhL 
not answer his gentle words, nor open m}'^ heart to him again. A 
stranger, an unknown boy; and he was to take from my father his- 
ancestral house, his lands, his very ranie and degree! 1 clasped mg 
hands and hardened my heart; let him have justice, 1 said within 
myself— justice— we would await it proudly, and obey it without a 
murmur; but we rejected the sympathy of our supplanter; let him, 
as we did, stand alone. 

But 1 could not help a wistful look after him as Edgar went away 
with his most unsuitable companion along the level, dark, long road 
to the village inn. My father stood with me at the door gazing 
after them, with a strange, fascinated eye, and when they passed 
into the distance out of our sight, he diew a long breath of relief, 
and, in a faint voice, bade me come in. 1 followed him to ihe 
library, where lights were burning. The large, dim room looked 


12 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


<‘hiU and desolate as we entered it, and 1 saw a chair thrust aside 
Irom the table, where Seville had been sitting opposite my father. 
1 stood beside him now, for he held my hand and would not let me 
go. He had been quite dignified and self -possessed when we parted 
with the strangers, but now his face relaxed into a strange ease and 
weariness. We were alone in the world, my father and 1, but Irs 
thoughts were not often such as could be told to a girl like me; and 
1 think 1 had never felt such a thrill of affectionate delight as now, 
when 1 saw him yield before me to his new trouble — when he took 
his child into his confidence, and suffered no veil of appearance to 
interpose between us. 

“ Hester,’’ he said, holding my hand lightly in his own; “ 1 have 
heard all this story; the man is a relation, he tells me, of Brian’s 
wife; and though 1 can not understand how my brother should so 
have demeaned himself, yet the story, 1 can not dispute, has much 
appearance of truth. I like to be prepared for the worst— Hester! 
I wish 3 'ou to think of it. Do you understand at all W'hat will 
happen to us if this be true?” 

” .^Scarcely, papa,” said 1. 

” Cottiswoode will be ours no longer; the rank and consideration 
W'e have been accustomed to will be ours no longer,” said my fa- 
ther, with a slight shudder. ” Hester, do you hear what 1 say?” 

” Yes, 1 am thinking, papa,” said I, ” poverty. Want— 1 know 
the words; but 1 do not know what they mean.” 

‘‘ \Ye shall not have poverty or W’ant to undergo,” said my fa- 
ther quickly, with a little impatience, ” we will have to endure 
downfall, Hester— overthrow, exile and banishment — w'orse things 
than want or poverty. We shall have to endure — child, child, go 
to your child’s rest, and close those bright, questioning ej’es of 
yours! You do not understand what this grievous calamity is to 
me!” 

I withdrew from him a little pained and cast down, while he rose 
once more, and paced the room with measured steps. 1 watched 
his lofty figure retiring into the darkness, and returning to the 
light, with reverence and awe. He was not a country gentleman 
<lispossessed of his property to my overstrained imagination, but a 
king compelled to abdicate, a sovereign prince banished from his 
dominions; and his owm feelings were as romantic, as exalted, I 
might say as exaggerated as mine. 

After a little while he returned to me, restored to his usual com- 
posure. 

“It is time to go to rest, Hester — good-night. In the morning 1 
will know better what this is; and to-morrow — to-morrow,” he 
drew' a long breath as he stooped over me, ” to-morrow w^e will gird 
ourselves for our overthrow. Good-night!” 

And this was now the night-fall on tlie first day which 1 can de- 
tach and separate from all the childhood and youthful years before 
it— the. beginning of the days of my life. 


TirE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


13 


THE SECOND DAY. 

It was late in October, and winter was coming fast; — in all the 
paths about Cottiswoode the fallen leaves lay thick, and every 
breath of air brought them down in showers. But though these 
breezes were so melancholy at night when they moaned about the 
house, as it in lamentation for us, who were going away, in the 
morning when the sun was out the chilled gale was only bracing 
and full of a wild pleasure, as it blew full over the level of our 
moors, with nothing to break its force for miles. J>Iy own pale 
monthly rose had its few faint blossoms always; but 1 do not like 
the flowers of autumn,.those ragged dull chrysanthemums and grand 
dahlias which are more like shrubs than flowers. The jasmine 
that waved into my windov was always wet, and constantly drop- 
ping a little dark melancholy leaflet upon the window-ledge— and 
darker than ever were the evergreens— those gloomy lifeless Irt es 
which have no sympathy with nature. Before this, every change 
of the seasons brought only a varied interest to me; but this year 1 
could see nothing but melanclioly and discouragement in the W’an- 
ing autumn, the lengthening nights, and the chilled days. 1 still 
took long rambles on the flat high-roads, and through the dry stub- 
ble fields and sunbuint moors — but 1 w^as restless and discDnso- 
late; this morning 1 returned from a long walk, tired, as it is so un- 
natural to feel in tne morning — impatient at the wind that caught 
my dress, and at the leaves that dropped down upon me as 1 came 
up the avenue — wondering where all the light and color had gone 
which used to flush with such a splendid animation the great world 
of sky. where everything now was cold blue and watery wdiite — 
looking up at Cottiswoode, where all the upper windows w^ere open, 
admitting a damp unfriendly breeze. Cottiswoode itself, for the first 
lime, looked deserted and dreary; oh, these opened windows! how 
comfortless they looked, and how well L could perceive the air of 
weary excitement about the w'hole house— for we were to leave it 
to-day. 

The table was spread for breakfast in the dining-parlor; but al- 
ready a few things were away, an old-fashioned cabinet which had 
been my mother’s, and the little book-case w'here were all the books 
in their faded pretty bindings which had been given to her when 
she was a young lady and a bride— these were mine, and had al- 
w^ays been called mine, and the wall looked very blank where they 
had stood; and my chair, with the embroidered cover of my 
mother’s own working; 1 missed it whenever I came into the room. 
There were other things gone too, everything which was my father’s 
own, and did not belong to Cottiswoode, and everybody knows how 
desolate a room looks which has nothing but the barely necessary 
furniture — the tables and the chairs. To make it a little less miser- 
able, a fire had been lighted; but it was only raw, and half kindled, 
and, 1 think, if possible, made this bare room look even less like 
home. My tears almost choked me when I came into it; but 1 was 


14 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


very haughty anti proud in my downfall and would not cry, though 
1 longed to do it. My father was still in the library, and 1 went to 
seek him there. He was sitting by his own table doing nothing, 
though he had writing materials by him, and a book at his hand. 
He was leaning his head upon both his hands, and looking full be- 
fore him into the vacant air, with the fixed gaze of thouglit— 1 saw, 
that from his still and composed countenance, his proud will had 
banished every trace of emotion — yet 1 saw, nevertheless, how” un- 
derneath this calm exterior his heart was running over with the 
troubles and remencbrances of his subdued and pas''ionate life. 

For 1 knew my father was passionate in everything. despite his habit- 
ual restraint and quietness — passionate in his few deep-seated and un- 
changing loves — and passionate in the strong, but always suppressed 
resentment which he kept under as a Christian, but never subdued 
as a man. 1 stood back as L looked in reverence tor the suffering it 
must have cost him to retrace, as 1 saw he was doing, all his life at 
Cotliswoode; but he heard the rustle of my dress, and, starting with 
an impatient exclamation, called me to him. “ Breakfast, papa,’^ 
said 1 hesitating, and with humility— a strange smile broke on his 
face. 

“ Surely, Hester, let us go to breakfast,” he said rising slowly, as 
if his very movements required deliberation to preserve their poise 
and balance — and then he took me by the hand as be bad done 
wiien 1 w’as a child, and w-e went trom the one room to the other, 
and sat down at a corner of the long dining-table— for our pleasant 
round table at which we usually breakfasted, had, like the ether 
things, been taken away. 

My father made a poor pretense to eat — and kept up a wavering 
conversation with me about books and study. 1 tried to answer 
him as well as 1 was able; but it w'as strange to be talking of iu- 
diflereut things the day we w'ere to leave Cottisw^oode, and my heart 
seemed lo flutter at my throat and choked me, W'hen 1 ventured a 
glance round the room. More than a month had passed since that 
visit of misfortune that brought a new claimant upon our undis- 
turbed possession, and Edgar Southcote’s rights had been very 
clearly made out, and this was why we were to leave to-day. 

AYe were still sitting at the breakfast-table, when the letters were 
brought iu. My father opened one of them, glanced over it, and 
then tossed it to me. It was a letter from m}'^ cousin, such a one as 
he had several times received before, entreating him with the most 
urgent supplications to remain in Cottiswoode. It was a very sim- 
ple boyish letter, but earnest and sincere enough t-o have merited 
better treatment at our hands— 1 have it still, and had almost cried 
over it, when 1 saw it the last time — though 1 read it with resent- 
ment tins morning, and lifted my head haughtily, and exclaimed at 
the boy’s presumption: ” 1 suppose he would like to give us per- 
mission to stay iu Cottiswoode,” 1 said bitterly, and my father 
smiled at me as he rose and went buck to the librar}' — 1 knew him 
better than to disturb him again, so 1 hurried out of the room which, 
was so miserable to look at, and went to my own chamber upstairs. 

My pretty room with its bright chintz hangings, and its muslin 
draperies which 1 did not care tor, and yet loved; for 1 was not a 
younc lady at this time, but ouly a courageous iudependeut girl, 


THE DAYS OF SlY LIFE. 


15 


brought up by a man, and more accustomed to a library than a 
boudoir; and feminine tastes were scarcely awakened in me. 1 was 
more a copy of my father than anything else; but still with a nat- 
ural love of the beautiful, 1 liked my pretty curtains, and snowy 
festoons of muslin — 1 liked the delicac5’' and grace they gave — 1 
liked the inferred reverence for my youth and womanhood which 
olaimed these innocent adornments; and more than all 1 loved 
Alice, who provided them for me. Alice was my own attendant, 
my friend and guide and counselor; she was a servant, yet she was 
the only woman whom 1 held in perfect respect, and trusted with 
all my heart. After my father, 1 loved Alice best of all the world; 
but wdtn a very different love. In my intercourse with my father, 
he was the actor and 1 the looker-on, proud when he jjermitted me 
to sympathize with him, doubly proud when he opened his mind, 
and showed me what he felt and thought. To bring my little 
troubles and annoyances, my girlish outbreaks of indignation or of 
pleasure, to disturb his calm, would have been desecration — but 1 
poured them all in the fullest detail into the ear of Alice, and with 
every one of the constant claims I made upon her sympathy, 1 think 
Alice loved me better. When 1 was ill, 1 would rather have leaned 
upon her kind shoulder than on any pillow, and nothing ever hap- 
pened to me or in my presence, but 1 was restless till Alice knew' of 
it 1 think, even, her inferior position gave a greater charm to our 
intercourse— 1 think an old attached and respected servant is the 
most delightful of confidants to a child; but, however that may be, 
Alice was my audience, my chorus, everything to me. 

Alice w^as about forty at this time, I suppose; she had been my 
mother’s maid, and m3" nurse, always an Important person in the 
house; she was tall, with rather a large face, and a sweet bright 
complexion, which alway's seemed fresh and clear like a summer 
morning; she was not very remarkable for her taste in dress— her 
caps were always snow-white, her large white aprons so soft and 
spotless, that 1 liked to lay" my cheek on them, and go to sleep there, 
as 1 did w'hen 1 was a child; but the gowm she usually wore was of 
dark green stuff, very cold and gloomy like the evergreens, and the 
little printed cashmere shawl on lier shoulders would have been al- 
most dingy, but for the white, w'hite muslin kerchief that pressed 
out of it at the throat and breast. She had large hands, brown and 
w'l’inkled, but with such a soft silken touch of kindness; -and this 
was my Alice, as she stood folding up the pretty chintz curtains in 
my dismantled room. 

“ Oh, Alice! isn’t it miserable?” 1 cried while 1 stood by her 
side, looking round upon the gradual destruction — 1 did not want 
to cry; but it cost me a great effort to keep down the gathering 
tears. 

” Sad enough, Miss Hester,” said Alice, ” but, do you know, it 
you had been brought up in a towm, you would not have minded a 
removal; and you shall soon see such a pretty room in Cambridge 
that you will not think of Cottiswoode— ” 

‘‘No place in the world can ever be like Cottiswoode to me,” 
said 1, with a little indignation that my great self-control should be so 
little appreciated. ‘‘ Of course, I should not wish to stay here w’hen 
it is not ours,” 1 went on, rubbing my eyes to get the tears away, 


16 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

“butl will always think Cottiswoode home — no other place will 
ever be home to me. ” 

“You are very young, my dear,” said Alice quietly,, 

1 was almost angry with Alice, and it provoked me so much to 
hear her treating my grief so composedlly, that the tears which 1 
had restrained came fast and thick, with anger and petulance in 
them. 

“ Indeed, it is very cruel of you, Alice!” 1 said, as well as 1 was 
able; “ do you think 1 do not mean it? — do you thinR I do not 
know what 1 say?” 

“ 1 only think you are very young, poor dear!” said Alice, leak- 
ing down upon me under her arm, as she stretched up her hands to 
unfasten the last bit of curtain, “and 1 am an old woman. Miss 
Hester. 1 saw your poor mamma come away from her home, to , 
find a new one here. It was a great change to her, for all so much 
as her child likes Cottiswoode she liked her orwn home very dearly. 
Miss Hester, and did not think this great house was to be compared 
to it— but she came away here of her own will after all — ” 

“ But that was because she was marrieil, Alice,” said 1, hastily. 

“Yes, it was because she was married, and because it is the com- 
mon way of life,” said Alice; “ but the like of me. Miss Hester, 
that has parted with many a one dear to me, never to see them 
again, thinks little, darling, of parting with dead walls.” 

“ Alice, have you had a great deal of grief?” said I, reverently. 
My attention was already diverted from the main subjects of my 
morning’s thoughts; for 1 was very young, as she said, and had a 
mind open to every interest, that grand privilege of youth. 

“ 1 have lost husband and children, father and mother. Miss Hes- 
ter,” said Alice, quietly. She had her back turned to me, but it 
was not to hide her weeping, for Alice had borne her griefs with 
her for many, many years. 1 knew very well that it was as she 
had said, for she had often told me of them all, and of her babies, 
whom she never could be quite calm about— but she very seldom 
alluded to them in this way, and never dwelt upon her loss, but al- 
ways upon themselves. I did not say anything, but 1 felt ashamed 
of my passion of grief for Cottiswoode. If 1 should lose Alice — or, 
still more frightful misfortune, lose my father — what would Cottis- 
woode be to me? 

“ But, my dear young lady was nity herself,” said Alice, after a 
short pause; “ 1 think 1 can see her now, when 1 could not cry m}’’- 
self, how she cried for me— and 1 parted with her too, Miss Hester. 

I think she had the sweetest heart in the world; she could not see 
trouble, but she pitied it, and did her best to help.” 

“ Alice,” said 1, hastily connecting these things by a sudden and 
involuntary conviction, “why is it that papa says, ‘Pity is a 
cheat ’?” 

“ It is a hard saying. Miss Hester,” said Alice, pausing to look at 
me; and then she went on with her work, as if this was all she had 
to say. 

“ He must have reason for it,” said 1; “ and when 1 think of that 
Edgar Southcote presuming to pity us, 1 confess it makes me very- 
angry. 1 can not bear to be pitied, Alice!” 

But Alice went on with her woik, and answered nothing. I was 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


17 

left to myself, and received no sympathy iu my haughty dislike of 
anything which acknowledged the superiority of another. 1 was 
piqued for the moment. I w'oiild a great deal rather that Alice aad 
said, “ jNo one can pity you;” but Alice said nothing of the kind, 
and after a very little interval, my youthful curiosity conciuered my 
pride. 

‘‘ You have not answered me, but 1 am sure you know,” said 1. 
“ Alice, what does papa mean?” 

Alice looked at me earnestly for a moment — 

” I am only a servant,” she said, as if she consulted wu'tli herself. 
” 1 have no right to meddle in their secrets; but I care tor noihing 
in the world but them, and 1 have served al I her da 3 '’s. Yes, 
Miss Hester,! will tell you,” she concluded suddenly, ‘Wcause 
you’ll be a woman soon, and should know what evil spirits there 
are in this w'eary, weary life.” 

But though she said this, she was slow to begin an explanation. 
Bhe put away the curtains first, carefully smoothert down and folded 
into a great chest which stood open beside us, and then she began to 
lift up'my tew books, and the simple furniiure of my toilet-table, 
and packed them away for the removal. It was while she was thus 
engaLmd, softly coming and going, and wdping off specks of dust in 
a noiseless, deliberate way, that she told me the story of ray father 
and mother. 

” My jmung lady was an only child, like you. Miss Hester,” said 
Alice; ” but her father’s land was all entailed, and it has passed to 
a distant cousin now, as jmu know. 1 think she was only about 
eighteen when the two youns: gentlemen from Cottiswoode began to 
visit at our house. Mr. Brian came as often as your father-- they 
w'ere always together, and I remember very well how 1 used to 
wonder if both of the brothers were in love with Miss Helen, or if 
the one onl}' came for the other’s sake. Mr. Brian was a very 
different man from jmur papa, my dear. There was not such a 
charitable man iu the whole country, and he never seemed to care 
tor himself; but somehow, just because he was so good, he never 
seemed iu earnest about anything he wished — you could not 
believe he cared for anything so much, but he would give it up if 
another asked it from him. It’s a very fine thing to be kind and 

f enerous. Miss B ester, but that was carrying it too far, you know, 
f I had been a lady 1 never would have married Mr, Brian South- 
cote, for I think he never would have loved me halt so much as he 
would have loved the pleasure of giving me away. 

” But_ 3 'ou know how different your papa was, I used to think 
it would be a pleasure to trust anything to Mr. Howard, because, 
whatever he bad and cared for, he held as fast as life; and my 
young lady thought so too. Miss Hester. They were both in love 
with jMiss Helen, and very glad her papa would have been had she 
chosen Mr. Brian, who was the heir of all. It used to be a strange 
sight to see them all— poor Mr. Brian so pleasant to everybody, ami 
Mr. Howard so dark and passionate and miserable, and my sweet 
young lady terrified and unhappy, glad to be good friends with Mr. 
Brian, because she did not care for him; and "so anxious about Mr. 
Howard, though she scarcel}' dared to be kind to him, because she 
thought so much of him in her heart. Your papa was veiy jealous. 


18 


THE DATS OF HY LIFE. 


]\Iiss Hester. It is- liis temper, and 1 am not sure, my dear, that it 
is not yours; and lie knew Mr, Hiian was pleasanter spoken than 
he was, and that everybody liked him— so, to be sine, he thought 
his brother was certain to be more favored than he, which only 
showed how’ little your papa Rnows, for all so learned a man as he 
is,” said Alice, shifting her position and turning her face to me to 
place a parcel of books in the great chest: ” tor Mr. Brian was a 
man to b’ke, and not to love.” 

She w^as blaming my father, and perhaps, she had more blame to 
say; but her blame interred more than praise, 1 thougiit, and 1 list- 
ened eagerly. Yes! my father w’as a man to love, and not to like. 

” They say courting time is a happy time,” said Alice, with a 
sigh; ” It was not so iheii. Miss Hester. However, they all came to 
an explanation at last. I can not tell you how it came about, but 
we heard one day that Mr. Brian was going abroad, and that Mr. 
Howard was betrothed to Miss Helen." I knew it before anyone 
else, for my young lady trusted me; and when 1 saw your papa the 
next day, his face was glorious to behold. Miss Hester. 1 think he 
must have had as much joy in that day as most men have in all 
their lives, tor 1 don’t think 1 ever saw him look quite happy 
again ” 

” Alice!” 

” My dear, it is quite true,” said Alice, quietly, and with another 
sigh. ” 1 could not tell for a long time what it was that made him 
so ( vercast and moody, and neither could my young lady. It could 
not be Mr. Brian, for Mr. Brian gave her up in the kindest and 
quietest way — you could not have believed how glad he was to 
sacrifice himself to his brother— and went away to the West Indies, 
where yoni grandmamma had an estate, to look after the poor 
jieople there. 8o then the marriage was over veiy soon, and your 
Orandpapa Southcote took the young people home to live witli'him 
at Cottiswmoile; and any one that knew how fond he w^as of Miss 
Helen, would have thought Mr. Howard had got all the desire ot 
his heart. But he had not. Miss Hester! The heart ot man is never 
satisfied, the Bible says; and 1 have often seen your papa’s face 
look as black and miserable after he was married,* as when he used 
to sit watching Mr. Brian and ni}^ poor dear j^oung lady.. Your 
mamma did not know' what to think of it, out she always hung 
about him with loving ways, and was patient, and drooped, and 
pined away till my heart was broken to look at her. Then she le- 
vived all at once, and there was more life in the house tor a little 
while; she had found out what ailed him. But, oh! Miss Hester, 
a poor woman may set her life on the stake to change a perverse 
fancy, and never shake it till she dies. Your papa had got it into 
his head that my young lady had married him out ot inty ; and all 
her pretty ways, and her love, and kindnesses, he thought them all 
an imposition, my dear, and that is the reason why he says that 
hard, cruel saying, ‘ Pity is a cheat!’ ” 

” And then, Alice?” said 1 eagerl}'. 

” And then? There tvas very little more. Miss Hester. She was 
burried out of this world when you were born; she had never lime 
to say a word to him, and went away with that bitterness in her 
heart, that the man she had left tatlier and mother for never under- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


19 


Stood her. Death tries faith, my clear, though you knoT7 nothing 
ot it. Think how 1 stood looking at her white face in her last rest ! 
thinking ot her life and her youth, and that this was the end of all ; 
so caretu’lly as she had been tiaiued and guarded from a child, and all 
her education and her books, and such hopes that there were of what 
she would be when she grew up a woman; but soon 1 saw that she 
grew up only to die— God never changes, Miss Hester— he tries a 
poor woman like me very like the way he tried Abraham— and that 
was what I call a fiery passage for faith!” 

” And my mother, Alice? and poor, poor papa— oh! how did he 
ever live after it?” cried 1, through my tears. 

” He lived because it was the will of God— as we all do,” said 
Alice, ” a sad man anil a lonely he is to this day, and will never get 
comfort in his heart tor the wrong he did my dear 3 'oung lady —never 
till he meets her in heaven.” 

At that moment Alice was called, and went away. Poor, poor 
papa! he was wrong; but how my heart entered into his sufferings! 
1 did not think ot the bitterness of love disbelieved and disturbed, 
of my mother’s silent martyrdom—] thought only ot my father, my 
first of men! He loved her, and he thought she him. i 

started from my seat at the touch of this intolerable thought. 1 
realized in the most overwdielming fullness what he meant when he 
said. ” Pity is a cheat!” Pity! it was dreadful to think of it. 
Though it was but a mistake, a fancy, what a terrible cloud it was! 

1 will not say that this story filled my mind so much, that 1 do 
not recollect the other events of that day: on the contrary, I recollect 
them perfectly, down to the most minute detail; but they are all 
connected in my mind with niy grief for my father— with the 
stranpe, pow'erful compassion 1 had for him, and some involuntary 
prescience of my own fate. For it w’as him 1 thought of, and never 
my mother, whom I had never seen, and whose gentle, patient tem- 
per was not so attractive to my disposition. No; I never thought 
he was to blame; I never paused to consider if it was himself w^ho 
had brought this abiding shadow over his life. 1 only echoed his 
words in my heart, and clung to him, in secret, w ith a profound and 
passionate sympathy. Pity! I shuddered at the word. 1 no longer 
wondered at his haughty rejeciion of the slightest approach to it— 
for did not I myself share, exaggerate, this very pride? 

The mournful, tedious day went on, and its dreary business was 
accomplished. xVll our belongings were taken away from Cottis- 
woode, and Alice and another servant accompanied them to set our 
new house in order before we came. Just before she went away at 
noon, when the autumn day was at its brightest, 1 found Alice cut- 
ting the roses from my favorite tree. 1 stood looking at her, as ^le 
took the pale, faint flowmrs one by one, but neither ot us spoke at 
first; at last 1 asked her — 

” Wby do you take them, Alice?” 

And 1 spoke so low, and felt so reverential, that 1 think 1 must 
have anticipated tier reply. 

1 had to bend forward to her to hear what she said. 

” They were your mother’s,” said Alice ” 1 decked her bride 
chamber with them, and her last bed. They are like what she was 
when trouble came.” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


20 

She had only left one rose upon the tree— a halt-blown rose, with 
dew still lying under its tolded leaves — and she wentawa 5 % leaving 
me looking at it I felt reproved, I know not why, as if my young 
mother was crying to me for sympathy, and 1 woald not give it. 
No! 1 went back hastily to the dreary, half-emptied library where 
my father sat. My place was b}' him — this solitary” man, who all 
bis life had felt it rankling in his heart, that he was pitied where he 
should have been loved. 

In the evening, just before sunset, 1 heard wheels approaching, 
and, on looking out, saw the post-chaise which w”as to take us to 
Cambridge coming down the avenue. -My father saw it also. We 
neither of us said anything, but 1 went away at once to put on my 
bonnet. It was dreadful to eo into these solitary roorns, which 
were all the more desolate because they were not entirely dis- 
mantlsd, but still had pieces of very old furniture here and there, 
looking like remains of a wreck. After 1 had left my owm room — a 
vague "dusty wnlderness now”, with the damp air sighing in at the 
open lattice, and the loose jasmine bough beating against it, and drop- 
ping its dreary little leaves--! stole into the dining parlor for a mo- 
ment to look at that picture w”hich was like Edgar Southcote. 1 
looked up at it w”ith my warm human feelings— my young, young 
exaggerated emotions, full of resentful dislike and prejudice; it 
looked down on me, calm, beautiful, melancholy, like a face out of 
the skies. Pity, pity, yes! 1 hurried away, stung by the thought. 
Edgar Souihcote had the presumption to pity my father and me! 

AYith a last compunctious recollection of my poor young mother, 
1 went to the garden and tenderly brought away that last rose, i 
could cry over it, without feeling that 1 wept because Cottiswoode 
was my cousin’s and not mine. “ 1 will always keep it!” I said to 
myself as I w”rappe(i some of the fragrant olive-colored leaves ot the 
walnut round its stalk; and then I went in to my fattier to say I 
w”as ready. He had left the library, and was walking through the 
house — 1 could hear his slow heavy footsteps above me as 1 listened 
breathlessly in the hall. Whitehead, and the other servants, had 
collected there to say good bye. Whitehead, who was an old man, 
W'as to remain in charge ot the house; but all the others, except his 
niece Amy, were to go away this very night. AVhile I stood trying 
to speak to them, and trying very hard not to break down again, my 
father came down-stairs, went into the dining-parlor, and passed 
through the window into the garden. 1 thought he wished to es- 
cape the farewell ot the servants, so I said good-bye hurriedly and 
followed him; but he was only walking up and down, looking at 
the house. He took my hand mechanically, as 1 came up to him, 
and led me along the walk in silence; then I was very much startled 
to find that betook hold of my arm, and leaned on it as if he wanted 
a support. 1 looked up at him wistfully when he paused at last — 
he was looking up at a window above; but he must have felt how 
anxiously my eyes sought his face, for he said slowly, as if he were 
answering a question, ” Hester, 1 have lived here.” 1 did not dare 
to say anything, but I held very close to my heart my mother’s rose; 
he was thinking of her then, he was not thinking of pity nor of any 
bitterness. 

In a few minutes he was quite himself once more, and drew my 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


21 


i)and upon l)is arm, and went in wilb me to say farewell to the serv- 
ants; he did so willi grace and dignit}", like an old knight of romance 
— for he was never haughty to his interiors, and they all loved him. 
The}’^ were crying and sobbing, every one of them — even old White- 
head — and 1 cried too, 1 could not help it; but my father was quite 
unmoved. He put me into the chaise, took his seat besWe me, 
waved his hand out ot the window, smiling as he did so— and then 
he closed the blinds rapidly on that side, and the carriage drove 
away. It was all over like a dream. 1 dared not, and could not, 
look bacR upon the home wdiich had been the center of my thoughts 
all my life; and with the cold night wind blowing in our faces, we 
were hurrying to a new life, altogether severed from our old exist- 
■ence, and from Cottiswoode. 

Yes! the wind was in our faces, fresh and cold— and 1 never feel 
it so now without an instant recoiled ion ot that long silent drive to 
Cambridge, through the darkening October night. The long dark 
levels of the fields rushed past us so swiftly, and with such a deso- 
late quietness; and the long luminous line of the horizon, and the 
dull clouds ot night, kept us company with such a ghost-like con- 
stancy, traveling at as quick a pace as ours, 1 was soon tired of; 
weeping under my veil, for 1 had all the restlessness of my years; 
and I can see now how the darkness brooded upon the flat meadows, 
how there seemed no human divisions of fence or hedge upon them, 
but only one blank line of grass from which the night had taken all 
color, and of plowed laud stretching back its lessening furrows over 
many acres, which the eye ached to see. Sometimes, miles away, a 
pollard willow bristled up upon the sky, showing its every twig 
with a strange exaggeration as it stood guarding some dreary point 
of road— and the solitary ha 3 ^ 8 tack which belonged to some one of 
those poor stray cottages belated among tire fields, threw up its bulk 
like a gobliu against that clear universal background-*tbat pale line 
of sky which brought out every outline with such a ghostly distinct- 
ness. Distance, space, the wild idea ot an unending and unreposing 
journey, aie the very spirit and sentiment of this country — 1 think 
sometimes its dull uufeatured outline is halt sublime; there are no 
mountain heights to attain to, no sweet vallej^s charming you to 
rest; only the long lines converging into the infinite sk^' — the fresh 
breeze in your face— and the rushing of your own footsteps through 
the silence, crying— On— on! 

There was not a word exchanged between us all the waj'— niy 
father sat quite still, looking out from one window, engageu 1 know 
not how, while 1 looked from the other, feeling a strange enjoyment 
in the mere motion and progress, and in the silence and dreamy 
dreariness of all those flat unvarying lines, that glided past us in the 
twilight and the night. 

There were neither moon nor stars, yet it was not very dark, even 
when we reached Cambridge— 1 had been in the town before, but 1 
kuew little of it, and 1 had no knowledge of where we were, when 
we stopped beside the old church of St. Benel, and my father as- 
sisted me to alight. 1 was surprised, tor there were only some mean 
houses and a shop before us — but he drew my hand within his arm, 
and led me along a paved and narrow lane, on one side of which 
was the church-yard. The light seemed quite shut out here— it was 


22 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


like desccndioo' a well to go boldly into that darkness; but we went 
on, past the little new houses on the one hand, and the old con- 
ventual buildings, which loomed on us so strangely from the other, 
till we paused at a door where some one stood with a lantern. As 
the man raised his lantern and the light flashed up, 1 saw that we 
were to enter under this arched doorwav, which hacl a coat of arms 
in the keystone. There were two or three steps to descend, and then 
the door was closed, and we went along a narrow path, where there 
was a blank wall covered with ivy on one side, and the house on the 
other. The liglit of the lantern gleamed in those dark glistening 
ivy leaves, and in the square projecting windows of this new home 
of ours. 1 was glad to see how different from the massy glories ot 
Cotliswoode was this strange house, with its two projections, one 
supported on dark oaken beams, and the other built up from the 
ground. The building was only wood, and lath and plaster, except 
the heavy and unlighted ground-story, w^hich was gray and aged 
stone; and the broad square windows on the upper floor which tilled 
the whole front of each projecting part, were formed of small dia- 
mond panes. But 1 saw no mode of entrance, nothing but tali un- 
gainly rose-bushes, and withered creepers nestling up against the 
walls, till we turned the corner and came to a door in the end of the 
house, where Alice was standing to receive us. We had to make 
our way in here, through a ragged regiment ot tall straggling holly- 
hocks-"-! have hated them ever since that night. 

But my father had not once addressed me yet. and my own mind 
w’as so full, that I had never observed his silence. He spoke now 
when w’e were on the threshold, and I started at the sound of his 
voice. He only said, “ Hester, this is your new home!” but I think 
there was the most wonderful mixture of emotions in bis voice that 
1 had ever heard — determined composure, and yet highly excited 
feeling — disdain ot this poor place he brought me to, yet a fixed 
resolution to show content in it, and stronger and greater pride than 
ever. My heart echoed the resolution and the pride, as I sprung in 
— but my heart was young and full ot the pleased excitement of 
novelty and change. 1 know nothing of what he felt as he followed 
me with his slow and stately step — nothing, for t was impatient to 
see all these rooms that we were to live in, and to make acquaint- 
ance with ni}’^ new home. 

So 1 ran on, leaving him to follow me~l could not have done bet- 
ter, had I been laborimr to find someihing which would comfort and 
cheer him. My eagerness gave a certain interest to the poor house, 
i remember that he held me back for a moment, and looked into my 
face with a slow smile gradually breaking upon his own. Mine, 1 
know, was full of light and animation—! remember how my cheeks 
glowed from the wind, and. how the warmth and the lights had 
brought water into my eyes; and, ! suppose. Hooked quite as blight 
and eager as if ! had never known the'irirlish heroical despair lor 
leaving Cottiswoode which possessed me an hour aso. I ran from 
one apartment to another, exclaiming at everything, sometimes with 
pleasure, sometimes with astonishment. The two broad windows 
which I had seen outside, represented two large apartments, occupy- 
ing the whole breadth of the house, and eaeli wi h a window at tlie 
other end, looking out upon a great dim silent garden, fenced in by 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


23 

other gardens, and on one side by a dark mass ot building, along 
which a light tw inkled here and there. These rooms w^ete ifot tally 
iiiruished, but they were already in a habitable slate, and in one of 
them a bright hre blazed pleasantly, sparkling in the old silver ket- 
tle and tea-pot. and antique china, which w^e always used at home 
—at home! The words meant these strange rooms, and had no 
other reference now lor my father and me. 

But when 1 went to lay aside my bonnet, 1 found a room pre- 
pared for me, prettier, it that were possible, than the pretty cham- 
ber at Cottiswoode, where Alice had tended me all my life. The 
white draperies were so white, and full, and soft— the pretty chintz 
hangings were so fresh with their new bands of ribbons, and there 
W’as so much care and tenderness in the hands \vhich had restored 
my own room perfect and unbroken, yet made it brighter than ever, 
that I clung'to Alice with an April face where the tears had some- 
how lost their bittermss, and the smile its pride. Now and then in 
my life, 1 have found out suddenly, in a moment, ot how little im- 
portance external things were to me. The conviction came upon 
my mind at this instant like a sunbeam. TVTiat uid it matter to me 
standing here in my triumphant youthfulness, with my father to be 
loved and cared for, and Alice to love and care for me— what did it 
matter wdio lost or who won such outside and external matters as 
houses and lands? 1 threw’’ of! m.y mantle upon the kind arm ot 
Alice, and danced away to make tea for my father. In proportion 
to the depth of my sadmss at leaving Cottiswoode, was the lieighi 
of my exhilaration now to find another home. VVe had expectsd 
this to he a very dreary evening— instead of that 1 had seldom been 
so happy, so vivacious* so daring, in my girl’s talk; and there sat my 
father, his face brightening in the firelight, smiling at my boldness, 
my enthusiasms, my denunciations, my girlish superlative emotion. 
‘When tea was over, he fell into a fit of musing, and was not to be 
disturbed, 1 knew— and then 1 examined the room with its wainscot 
panels, its carved mantel-shelf, and its panel pictures, hard flat por- 
traits. which had no pretension to the roundness or the breadth of 
life, but were as level as the Cambridgeshire flats, and almost as 
much like each other. And then 1 went to the further window, 
and coiled myself up upon the bench within the curtains, to solace 
myself with my own thoughts,’ The garden lay dark beneath, with 
shadowy bare trees here and there, lifting up their branches to the 
sky, and some fantastic little greenhouse, or summer-house, half 
way down, showing a dull glimmer ot glass under the boughs. But 
insensibly my eyes turned from the garden and the darKness, to 
count the scattered ligliis in the windows of this dark building, 
which marked its embrasures upon the sky at my right hand. A 
liaht in a window is a strange lure to imagination— 1 watched them 
with interest and pleasure— they w’ere unknown, yet they W’ere 
neighbors— and il was pleasant from hearing the wind without, and 
seeing the dark, to turn upon the glimmering tapers with a certain 
friendly v/armth and satisfaction, as though some one had said 
good-night. 

And so we were settled to our new beginning, and our new home. 


24 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


THE THIRD DAY. 

I WAS in the garden, where 1 almost lived in the sweet summer 
days in those times of my youth; it was June, and 1 did not fear 
the windows of Corpus, which looked out upon the trees with their 
numberless leaves, the trees which were quite shelter enough for 
me. It 1 had begun to have visions of the universal romance of 
youth, my thoughts were much too exalted to think of vulgar fall- 
ings in love, and though 1 constantly hailed jis neighbors these 
kindly lights in the windows of the collegiate buildings, 1 was 
troubled by no thought of the yoimg gownsmen, the possible pos- 
sessors of the same; and so it name about that 1 went as freely to 
the earden of our quaint old house, overlooked by the windows of 
Corpus Christi College, as 1 had been used to go in the garden of 
Cottiswoode, which was not overlooked by anything within a dozen 
miles, save the fruit trees in the orchard, and the great walnut by 
the house. 

This w'as now the second summer since we came to Cambridge, 
and this garden was no longer the wilderness which it was w-hen I 
saw it first. My father had a peculiar fancy in gardening— every- 
thing in this sunny stiip of land was inclosed in a soft frame of 
greensward — where a path w’as indispensable, it wms a hard, yellow 
sandy p»ath that glistened in the sun, and threw off the moisture; 
but instead of geometrical divisions and cross-roads through our gar- 
den, you could scarcely see either gravel or soil for the velvet turf 
that pressed over the roots of the trees, and round the flower-beds; 
and for the thick and close luxuriance of the flowers that grew 
within. The one or two Cambridge ladies who came to see me 
sometimes, shook their heads at our giassy garden, and hoped I 
took care never to go out when the turf wms damp; but, indeed. I 
took no such care, and Avas very proud of our full and verdant in- 
closure in comparison with other people’s flower-beds, where noth- 
ing grew so well as ours, though everything had more room to 
grow. On this day ot which I am now speaking, the sweet green- 
sward was warm with sunshine in every corner, It was afternoon, 
and the streets were sultry, the waylarers flushed and weary, the 
fields parched and dry; but the sun was playing in the leaves above 
me, and ninking playful figures with his light and shadow’ on the 
grass under my feet— figures which changed and varied with sweet 
caprice as the wind swayed the leaves about, and as the sun stole by 
in visible degrees toward the west— and everything was fresh anil 
sweet and full of fragrance in this charmed country of mine. 1 
was within the little fanciful greenhouse which was no less a bower 
forme, lhun« a shelter for the rarer flow’ers, and 1 was busy about 
some ot my favorites, which 1 used to care for with great devotion 
by fils, making up for it by such negligence at other times, tlnU tliis 
pretty place w'ould soon have been a very woful one had it been 
left to me. Just on the threshold of this greenhouse door, was the 
stuol on which 1 had been sitting, with a piece of embroidery at 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


25 

•wliicb 1 hart been workino; thrown clown upon it, and beyond that, 
on the grass, was a book which I had not been reading; tor it was 
not in my girlish, impatient naliiie to dally with anything readable 
— 1 either devoured it, or 1 let it alone. 1 was busy among the 
plants, and so inclosed by them that 1 was not visible Irom the gar- 
den — but, at this moment, 1 was not aware ot that. 

1 (lid not hear their footsteps upon the soft grass, but 1 heard the 
voices of my lather and his triend, Mr. Osborne, a fellow' of Corpus, 
who visited us constantly, and alwa3^s seemed in my father's confi- 
dence. They came to the greenhouse door and lingered there, and 
Mr. Osborne stood before the door, with his gowui streaming and 
rustling behind him, effectually concealing me it 1 had not been con- 
cealed already. 1 had no reason to suppose that their talk concerned 
me; nor was 1 much interested to listen to it. 1 went on with my 
occupation, plunging some slips of favorite plants into little pots of 
rich vegetable mold, and singing to myself half under my breath. 
1 was quite unsuspicious, and so were they. 

“ No,” said my father, “ Hester does not know of it. Hester is 
a girl, Osborne — 1 have no desire to make a woman of her before 
her time.” 

“Yet gills find out for themselves what interest they have in 
these matters,” said Mr. Osborne, in his quiet, half sarcastic tone, 
“and have speculations in those quiet eyes of theirs, whether we 
will or no, my friend.” 

“ There are few girls like Hester,” said my father proudly; “ par- 
don me, Osborne, but 3'ou have no child — I w'ant to preserve her as 
she is — why should 1 bring a disturbing element into our peaceful 
life.” 

“ Why? do you think your little girl is safely through her proba- 
tion, when she has had the measles and the whooping-cough?” said 
Mr. Osborne, laughing. “Nonsense, man--d’3'e think you save 
her from the epidemic of youth by shutting her up in this garden 
here? Take m3’’ w'ord tor it, these obnoxious things that you call 
the w'orld and society, are much better preventives than this leisure 
and solitude. Why, look at these window's, and be & sensible man. 
tSouthcote. D’3’e think nobody in Corpus but an old tel low' like me 
has seen your Proserpine among the flowers. How old is the child? 
tell me that, and 1 will tell you how soon there will be moonlight 
meditations, and breaking hearts, disturbing 3'our peaceful life for 
you. Hester is a ver3' good girl— ot course she is— but what is tliat 
to the question, 1 should be glad to know?” 

1 was very indignant by this time. 1 had very nearly caught his 
streaming gown, and shaken it w'ith vehement displeasure, but, 
withal, 1 was very curious to know what was the origin of this con- 
versation, and 1 subsided into a perfect guilty silence, and listened 
with all my might. 

“You do not understand Hester, Osborne,” said my father. 

“ Granted,” said his friend, quickly, “and, perhaps, the young 
lady is not quite an orthodox subject of study, 1 allow you; but 
pra3’’ what do you intend to do with her? is she to live in this gar- 
den forever, like that fantastic boy's lady of Shalott?” 

My father paused, and 1 listened eagerly. It was some time be- 
fore he answeied, and there was hesitation in his usually firm tones. 


26 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


“ Life has deluded me*" be said, slou'h% “ 1 am at a loss to know 
how to guard Hester, that it may not delude her als5,” 

“ Bouthcote!’’ said his companion, earnestly, “ listen to me a mo- 
ment. Life deludes no man. You are a self devourer. Y'ou have 
deluded yourself; nay, lake offense, and, ot course, 1 have done at 
once. 1 do not know the innocent mind of a young girl, very true; 
hut 1 know that imagination is the very breath ot youth— it must 
look forward, and it must dream — what is Hester to dream about, 
think you? not or the triumph of an examination, 1 suppose, nor 
ot going in for honors; you have not even tried to kill the woman in 
hei\ and make her a scholar. The child is shamefully ignorant, 
Southcote. Why here’s this feminine rubbish lying under my very 
feet— look here!” and he pulled up my mangled embroidery. ” I 
should not be surprised now, if it pleased your fancy, to see her 
bending her pretty head over this stuff — what’s she thinking ot all 
this lime, my friend? I^othing, eh? or only how to arrange the 
stitches, and matte one little turn the same as another? I’ll trust 
Hester for that.” 

There was another pause, and there he stood turning over my 
work, and 1 not able to rush forward and snatch it out ot his hand. 
My cheeks burned with shame and anger— how dared any man dis- 
cuss my thoughts and fancies so! 

” Well, here is the reai matter,” said my father, slowly; ” Edgar 
Bouthcote, it appears, is eighteen — two years older than my Hester, 
and old enough, he tninks, as he fells me, to decide upon the most 
important event of his life for himself — so he sends me a formal 
proposal for the hand of his cousin. My difficulty is not whether 
to accept the proposal— you understand that, Osborne— but whether, 
before giving it a peremptory and decided negative, 1 ought to make 
it known to Hester?” 

” 1 understanil. Well now, waiving that principal difficulty, 
might one ask why this young man’s very reasonable proposal 
should have such a peremptory negative?” said Mr. Osborne: ‘‘ tor 
my own part, 1 do n'ot see that this is at all a necessary conclusion.” 

“lam afraid it must suffice that 1 think it so,” said my father, 
in his firmest and coldest tone. 

” On your high horse again, Bouthcote? Patience a little, now. 
Your brother Brian was n{)t a strong-minded man — but a very good 
fellow for all that. What's your objection, now, to his son?” 

1 almost trembled for this cool scrutinizing ot my father’s motivea 
and opinions, which he never revealed to anyone — yet 1 too listened 
wi;h interest for the answer. No answer came. My father spoke 
hurriedly and with irritation; but he did not repl}'. 

” 1 presume you will permit us some little exercise of our own 
will as to the person whom we admit into our family,” he said; 
‘‘ but enough of this. Do you advise me to tell Hester, or to dis- 
pose of the affair on my own responsibility?” 

Mr. Osborne seemed bent on provoking my father’s slumbering 
resentment. 

” Well,” he said with a pause of much consideration, “had the 
boy proposed to you, the answer would have lain with you of 
course — but 1 think it quite possible that some time or other in her 
life Hester might remember that her old home and all Us revenues^ 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


27 

and, 1 have do doubt, a very worthy and generous youth along with 
them, had been laid at her feet, and her father on his own respon- 
sibility threw them away.’’ 

“Osborne!” cried my father — 1 almost expected he would com 
maud him away, and bid him never more enter our house. 1 am 
sure 1 fell that 1 never could address him with ordinary civility 
again— but instead of that, after a moment’s pause, my father re- 
sumed, m vehement tones certaiely, but not rn tones of auger at the 
speaker: “ Generous! and you thrnk L would give my daughter to 
one who sought her from a generous impulse; you forget my life, 
and you forget me.” 

How my heart throbbed and resounded in its quick and painful 
beating!--! can not tell how strangely 1 felt the possibility that 1 
myself might one day or other realize in my own person the mis- 
fortune of my father’s life. I'es, JMr. Osborne was right thus far; 
1 had not been thinking of nothing while! sat in the sunshine work- 
ing at my embroidery. 1 had already seen dimly through the golden 
mists the hero, the prince, the red-cross knight.' ! had already seen 
myself worshiped with the pure devoteduess of chivalry. 1 had 
already, like a true girl and woman, imagined all manner of glories 
and honors won for me by my true knight, and prized because they 
made him nobler, and not because they exalted me. Yes! 1 had 
been dreaming, innocent, beautiful, unworldly dreams— when lo! 
there fell upon me a vision of my Cousin Edgar, and his generous 
impulse. I clinched miy hands upon my little plant in a passion of 
indignation. The words stung me to the heart. 

“ Well — ! am not astonished that you regard it in this light,” 
said jMr. Osborne, “ but you must confess, at the same time, South- 
cote, that there is a more cpmmon-sense way of looking at it. The 
boy is a good boy, and feels that he has been the means of injuring 
bis cousin — what more natural than that the two branches of the 
family should unite their claims in this most satisfactory way — 
what is your objection to it? A punctilio? Come, don’t talk" of 
it to Hester yet — let’s have a fight, old friend. ! flatter myself you 
were none the worse in tire old days of arguing out the matter with 
Frank Osborne. Now then for your arguments. Heigho! How- 
ard, my boy, do you recollect the last time?” 

There was so long a pause that ! could not help stealing forward 
to look what was the reason. My father’s face was as black as 
night, and he stood opposite his friend in a rigid fixed attitude, 
vacantly looking at him — then he turned suddenly on Lies heel, 
“ Excuse me — ! am faint—! will return to j^ou instantly,” he said 
as he hurried in. Mr. Osborne shrugged his shoulders, gazed after 
him, shrugged again, began to whistle, and then suddenly turning 
round he found himself face to face with me. 

For the first moment, ! think I was the least disconcerted -for ! 
was veiy angry and indignant bejmnd measure; but, as his face 
gradually brightened into its usual expression of shrewdness and 
good-humored sarcasm, my own courage fell. 1 had been eaves- 
dropping, finding out my father’s secrets without his knowledge — 
playing a very shabby part—! who piqued myself upon my sense of 
honor. 

“ Sol” said Mr. Osborne, “ your father is right, young lady. ! 


28 THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

see, 1 did not understand Hester; pray what may you be doing 
here?” 

And 1 who had intended to denounce his paltry views, and to 
pour out the full tide ot my indignation upon him for thwarting 
and chafing my father — 1 was ready to cry with vexation and morti- 
fied pride. ” 1 did not intend to listen— 1 was only here by chance 
— and, at first, I thought you knew 1 was here,” said 1, making a 
pause between each sentence, swallowing down my ire and my 
humiliation. After all 1 had heard, to have to excuse myself to 
him! 

” Well, your father’s run away,” said Mr. Osborne; “ supjjose 
we finish the argument, Hester. It is 3 mur concern after all; but 1 
suppose such a thing as a sweetheart, or the dim possibility of be- 
ing wooed and married, never entered your guileless thoughts at 

air?” 

1 ditl not answer him — my girlish pride was on fire, and my 
cheeks burned, but 1 could find nothing sufiiciently annihilating to 
reply to 31 r. Osborne. 

We heard the noise of an opened door just then, and ot a footstep 
in the passage which led to the garden. 3lr. Osborne glanced hastily 
round him and then bent forward to me. 

“ Hester, attend to me. You are very 3 'oung, and have had a 
wihl education; try if you can think before you permit your father 
to decide on this. Do you mark me? 1 know this boy — he is 
better than you are, and he has a fantastic fancy for you, as great 
as you could desire. Hester, here’s your father. I’ll keep your 
secret, and do you think ot what 1 say.” 

3Iy father joined us immediately. If it surprised him to find me 
there, he took no notice ot it, and I was glad to pick up my em- 
broidery and hurry away. 1 was impressed with an uncomfurtable 
necessity tor thinking about it, from what Mr. Osborne had said, 
and 1 went to my own room to recollect myself. 1 could not deny 
either that 1 was a little excited and agitated about Uiis new appear- 
ance of Edgar Soulheote. It did not solten my heart to him, but 
it woke my curiosity, and it made a step in my lite. 1 said to my- 
self with a beating heart — a heart disturbed with wonder, with 
anger, with surprise, and something like affright — that] was no 
longer a girl, but a woman now, standing upon the threshold of my 
life. I was sixteen. 1 thought 1 was rapidly maturing and grow- 
ing old— for in this old house ot ours, so quiet and wilhdravvu from 
common company, the days were peopled with fancies ami imagi- 
nary scenes, and i did net know how veiy, very young and girlish 
were ray secret conceptions of life and of the world. 

Life! here was my father, a man m whom 1 could see no blemish 
— tvhat was his existence? Such as it was, he lived it in his library, 
among his books; talking with me now and then, and coming 
forth to take a long silent solitary \yalk, or a stroll in the garden in 
the evening, once or twice a week. Was this all? j^es! and 1 said 
within myself in reverent explanation of it, that his life had been 
blighted and cast down by one wrong that always gnawed at his 
heart; he had married for love; but my mother had married hi tn 
for pity. Was not this enough to account for tire somber shade iti 
which he lived and walked, "l said yes, yes! in eager youthful en- 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. '29 

tliiisiasm— yes, this was surely enough to decide for good or evil the 
whole tenor of a life. 

And then there was Alice! Nothing in this house or about it, not 
even the sunshine, cheered my heart like the smile of Alice; yet she 
was not meiiy, and had little to be merr}^ for. Alice was like one 
who bad come out of a desert, leaving: all her loves and treasures 
there behind her — she had lost everything, everything but her life — 
what had she to live for? I shuddered while 1 said so, for without 
Alice how dreary would my daj^s be; and then 1 paused to recollect 
that on the borders of this grand and momentous existence, where 
my father had failed in his own enterprise for happiness, and in 
which Alice had lost all she loved, my own feet wei*e standing 
now. 

This was what 1 thought on the subject which Mr. Osborne 
recommended to my consideration; when 1 thought again of 
Edgar, it was with a renewed flush of anger and mortification. Mj" 
cousin pitied me, wdio dreamed ol inspiring some true knight with 
the loftiest ambitions, and rewarding him sufficiently with a smile. 

1 w’as to be subjected to the humiliating proposals which Edgar 
Southcote’s “generous impulse” suggested to him! These were 
unfortunate words — how often they have clamored in my ear, and 
haunted me since then. 

I did not go into the garden again that day; not even when it 
was twilight, and the dews were calling out the odors, and the mur- 
mur of hushed sounds and distant voices from the quiet town 
charmed the dim air irito an enchanted calm. In my new-born con- 
sciousness, ] walked up and down the dim close, at the other side 
of the house, where there were no windows overlooking the high 
w’alls and its glistening ivy. 1 would be no Proserpine among the 
flow'ers to any foolish boy who dare spy upon my retirement from 
the college windows. Proserpine! if IMr. Osborne had known 1 
heard him, he never would have called me by that name, nor sup- 
posed that any gownsman of Corpus could ever interest me! 1 had 
a great contempt for my next neighbors in my girlish loftiness and 
maturity'. 1 could not have been more insulted than by such an 
insinuation as this. 

And then I went to the drawing-room, and stationed myself at 
my usual place in the window; the long room w'as nearly dark, 
though the pale half-light streamed through it from window to 
window, and it was strange to look across the whole length of the 
room to the ivy leaves faintly' quivering on the wall ai the other 
side. jMy father and Mr. Osborne, who had dined with us, were 
walking in the garden, talking earnestly, and with some indignation 
1 w'atcbed them, wondering if they still talked of me. Then there 
came out, one by one, tnese lights in the window's, some of them 
looking faint and steady like true student’s lamps, some suspiciously 
bright as though there was merry-making within. It pleased me to 
watch them, as window after window brightened on the night. 1 
scorned the inmates; but 1 did not scorn these neighborly and kindly . 
lights. 

jMy father came in very soon, and Mr. Osborne called me to say 
good-night; 1 went down to him where he stood at the door, and he 
held my hand a moment, and looked into my face. “ Now', lies- 


30 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


tei, i^ood- night- think of whal 1 said,” he relocated. These woiils 
induced me to return very quickly upstairs, where my father had 
gone, following Alice with the lamp. "When she had placed it on 
the table and lett the room, 1 went to mj’- father and stood beside 
him, till he lifted his e 3 'es from the book. He looked at me wilh a 
kind loving look, as it he had pleasure in seeing me — a look not 
very usual to my father — and took my hand as he always used to 
do, when 1 stood at his knee, to ask anything of him as a child, and 
said, “ Well, Hester?” 1 was full of excitement and resolution, 
and came to my subject at once, without remember ing that 1 might 
be blamed for what 1 had to say first. ‘‘ 1 \vas in the greenhouse, 
papa, when you were talking there with IVIr. Osborne to-day,” I 
said, firmly — and then 1 paused with a sudden recollection that this 
was not quite consistent either with my father’s code of honor or 
my own. 

” I did not intend to listen— it was very wrong — but 1 could not 
■conceal it from you, now it is done,’’ 1 proceeded hurriedly, ” and 
1 have come to say, papa, that I heard what you told jMr. bihornc 
about Edgar Southcote. 1 wonder- how he dares presume upon us 
so; 1 think a true gentleman would be sorry to let us see that he 
w'as able to be generous to us; and 1 hope you will WTite to him 
at once, papa, arid if it is necessary to say a'nything from me, let 
it be that 1 hope there never will be any communication between 
us, nor any need for me to tell him what 1 think in plain words.” 

My father continued to smile upon me, holding mj" hand, but 
without si)eakiug — then he said, still willi a smile — ” This is a ver^ 
enigmatical message, Hester — 1 am afraid 1 must make it plainer; 
for this young man, your cousin, has not dared nor presumed so 
much as 3 'ou seem to think, mj^ love; 1 am to tell him that we can 
not entertain any proposal or an alliance between the rival branches 
of the house of Southcote, that we beg his overtures may not be 
repeated, and though sensible of the great honor fie does us, we must 
beg to decline any further correspondence on the subject — is that 
what you mean, Hester? 1 think that is about as much as we are 
.entitled to say.” 

1 was scarcely pleased at the playful manner in wiiicli my father 
now treated a matter which he evidently had not looked on in a 
])layful light a few hours ago; but, at the same time, his tone made 
me ashamed of my own vehemence, and 1 assented hastilj^ He still 
held my hand, and his face became quite grave — he seemed to see 
that 1 w’as surprised, and wanted explanation of what he had said. 

” 1 am afraid we are thinking of this young man with a little bit- 
terness, lieslei,’' said my father, raising his lofty head, ” which is 
not very creditable to us, 1 fear, my love; — that he has claimed 
mid won what is justly his own, can be no wrong or offense to us. 
It is rather my part to thank him that he has set me right, than to 
imply that he has injured me. This last is by no means a dignified 
assumption, Hester, and it is more or less implied in every harsh 
judgment w’e give against j^our cousin— wdiereas, he is simply in- 
different to us, and m rejecting this proposal, 1 do it with civility, 
you perceive, just as 1 would any proposal which was distasteful, 
from whomsoever it came.” 

This speech of my father’s impressed me very greatly; 1 left him 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


31 

holding my head erect, yet feeling luimbletl. Yes, 1 had been very 
bitter in my heart against Edgar Soiithcote— I had felt resentment 
against him, strong and violent, as the supplanter of my father, but 
it was mean to dislike him on such a ground — it was what Alice 
called “ a poor pride;” yet 1 confess, it was somewhat difficult to 
rise, in anything but words, to the altitude of the other pride, and 
say, ” He is quite indifterent to me — he has done me no wiong— it is 
not possible that I oan have any grudge against niy cousin.” 

It was thus that 1 returned to my window-seat ; when 1 placed 
myself in my favorite corner, 1 looped up the curtain, so that 1 
could look in as well as out. The room was dim with that summer 
dimness which only the evening firelight drives away, and the mild 
light of the lamp shone softly in the middle of the siknt apartment, 
throwing every piece of furniture near in shadows on the carpet, 
and leaving all the corners in a faint half-shade of darkness. The 
point of light in the room was my father’s high white forehead, 
looking like marble with that illumination on it, and contrasting so 
strangely with his black hair. 1 looked at him as 1 might have 
looked at a picture. On one of Ids thin white fingers lie had a ring, 
a very fine diamond in a slender circle of gold, which flashed and 
shone in the light as he raised his hand, now and then, to turn a 
leaf— behind him and around him there w'as shadow and darkness, 
but the light had gathered on his face, and shone there like a star to 
me, as 1 lay within the curtain looking out into the stillness; and on 
my other hand was the soft gloom of a summer night lying close 
with its downy plumes upon the trees, and the soft pale skies 
with a faint star in them here and there, and the lights in the col- 
lege windows glowu'ng upon ymuth and untried strength like mine. 
Rest and calm, and the mild oblivion of the night, inclosed us like 
the arms of angels, but did not silence the swell of the rising tide in 
my heart. 


THE FOURTH DAY. 

It was winter again, a gloomy November day, ungenial and cold,. 
The rain was beating on the dark buildings of the college, and 
saturating the dreary greensward in our garden, till it sunk under 
the foot like a treacherous hog. There was not a leaf left on the 
trees, ami the ivy on the high wall of the close at the other side 
glistened and fluttered under the rain. There was nothing very 
cheeiful to be seen out of doors. 1 was alone in our diawing-room, 
and it was still early, and nothing had occurred to break the morn- 
ing torpor of this unbrightened day. 1 was sitting at the table 
working with great assiduity, with scraps of my materials lying 
round me on every side. My occupation was not a very serious 
one, though 1 pursued it with devotion. 1 was only dressing a doll 
for a little girl, who was niece to Alice, and named after me; but 
as it did not consist with my ambitious desires to have a doll of my 
dressing arrayed like a doll which could be bought by any one, 1 
was attiring this one in elaborate historical costume, like a lady of 
the age of Elizabeth, or even — so stilf and so grand was she— like 
that grim and glorious sovereign herself. 


32 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


The fire burned with a deep red glow, so full that it warmed and 
reddened the v(?ry color of the loom; and though it was a very sub- 
dued and gloomy light wliicli came through the rain, from those 
heavy laden skies, there was a warmth and comfort in the stillness 
here, which was rather increased than diminished by the dreary 
prospect without, li was very still — the great old clock ticking on 
the stair, the rain pattering upon the gravel, and on the broad flag 
stones at the kitchen door below, the faint rustle of the ivy leaves 
upon the wall, and sometimes the footstep of Alice, or of Mary, as 
they went up and down about their household work, were all the 
sounds 1 could hear; and as the excitement of my enlerpiise sub- 
sided, and my occupation itself was almost done, 1 began to be 
restless in the extreme quietness. It is true, 1 was veiy well used 
to it, and made up to myself largely by dreams and by visions; but 
1 am not sure that 1 was much of a dreamer by nature. 1 had a 
• strong spirit of action and adventure stirring within me. 1 was 
moved by the swiftest and most uncontrollable impulses, and had 
such a y’^earning upon me to do something now and then, that there 
was about the house a score of things begun, which it was impos- 
sible 1 could ever finish, and which, indeed, 1 never tried to finish, 
except under a momentary inspiration. If any one had tried to di- 
rect me, 1 might have applied to better purpose my superfluous en- 
ergy — but no one did— so 1 wasted it in wild fancies, and turbulent 
attempts at doing something, and sometimes got so restless with 
the pressure of my own active thoughts and unemployed faculties, 
that 1 could rest nowhere, but wandered about as perverse and irn- 
reasonable as it was possible for a lonely girl to be, and generally 
ended by quarreling with Alice, and finding myself to be in the 
wrong, and miserable to my heart’s content. 

This stillness! it began to get intolerable now—to sit and look at 
these ivy’’ leaves, and at the rain soaking into the spongy grass — to 
feel the warm full glow of the fire actually make me sleepy in the 
vacancy of my life — 1 started up in high disdain, and threw down 
the doll which caricatured Queen Elizabeth. 1 wanted something 
to do— something to do — 1 was sixteen and a half, high-spirited, 
warm-tempered, a Southcote! and 1 had nothing better to do with 
my youth and my strength, than to fall asleep over the fire, before 
it was noon in the day! 1 rushed down-stairs immediatel.y, with one 
of my su.lden impulses, to make some sort of attack on Alice. 1 
would have been glad to think that it was somebody’s fault that my 
life was of so little use; and 1 ran along the ]>assage leading to the 
kitchen with an impatient step; on the same floor was my father’s 
study, and a little old parlor where we now and then sat; but 1 did 
not disturb my father with my perverse thoughts. 

The kitchen was not very large, but looked so cheerful, that it 
alway s reminded me of Alice. The tvalls of the ground floor of 
the house were founded on some tiers of massy stonework, and 1 
suppose that gave it a look of warmth and stability— and in the 
side of the room, which was of this same old masonry almost to 
the roof, there was a little high window with an arched top, which 
threw a strange stream of sunlight into the room, and constantly 
annoyed Alice, in the summer, by’- putting out her fire. There was 
no sun to put out anybody’s fire to day, but the rain beat against 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


33 


the panes instead, and ti)e higli straggling head of a withered hol}’'- 
hock nodded at the window-sill, with the dreariest imperlinenoe. 
in the breadth of the kitchen, however, looking out on the garden, 
was a broad low lattice, quite uncurtained, which gave the fullest 
light of which the day was capable to this cheerful apartment; and 
at the great table which stood by it, Alice was standing making 
some delicate cakes, in the manufacture of which she excelled, I 
came up to her hastily, and threw mysef upon the wooden chair be- 
side her. I was full of those endless metaphysical inquiries which 
youth— and especially youth that has nothing to do, abounds in— 
wdiat was life W — what was it — what was the good of me, my par- 
ticular self, and for what purpose did 1 come into the world? Be- 
fore now I had poured my questionings into the ears of Alice, but 
Alice was very little moved by them, i am constrained to say. 

“ Have 3’ou done, Miss Hester?” said Alice, for 1 had tuKen her 
into my counsels to discuss the momentous question of the doll’s 
costume, and of what period it was to be. 

” Oh, yes! 1 am done,” said I; “ only think, Alice, nothing bet- 
ter to do all this morning than dress a doll; and now 1 have nothing 
at all to do.” 

” Dear Miss Hester, you never can want plenty ot things to amuse 
you,” said Alice; “don’t speak to me so— it’s unkind to your 
papa.” 

“ t don’t want things to amuse me,” said I, “ 1 want something 
to do, Alice. What is the use of me— it is very well tor you — you 
are always busy— but 1 want to know what’s the good of me!” 

“ You must not say that, dear! don’t now,” said Alice, “ you’re 
•but a child— you’re only coming to your life—” 

“1 don’t think life is much better, Alice,” said I. “Mr. Os- 
borne and my father dispute tor hours about passages in Greek 
books; are books life? 1 don’t think there is any satisfaction in 
them, more than in dressing a doll,” 

“ You did not think so on Tuesday night, my dear,” said Alice 
<iuietly, “ when the light was in your window halt through the 
night, and 1 know you were sitting up reading one.” 

Ah! but that was a novel,” i cried, starting up, “ that is the 
very thing! May I send Mary to the library? i will have one to- 
day.” 

So I ran upstairs to make a list of certain desirable volumes and 
sent ofi; Mary forthwith; then 1 returned to the table, where Alice 
made her cakes, and to my wooden chair. 

“ jNo, there is no satisfaction in them,” said 1, “ even a novel has 
an end, Alice; but do you Ihiuk that reading pages of printed paper 
is all that people need to care tor— do you think that is life?” 

“ Life is not one thing, but a many things. Miss Hester,” said 
Alice. “ Dear, you’re a-coming to it now.” 

“ TV hat am I coming to— only to breakfast, and dinner, and sup- • 
per over and over again, Alice,” said 1. “ 1 don’t mink it was so 

at Cottiswoode, but it is so here, 1 know— then you have to woik 
all day to cook for us, and we have to eat what you cook — and that 
is our life.” 

“ Don’t speak so. Miss Hester,” entreated Alice once more, “ k> 
is not a poor woman like me that can tell you what life is; there 
2 


34 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


were ten years or more in my life that were full of great things hap- 
pening to me; but little happened to me before or after— you would, 
think it was not worth my while living after these years/' 

1 confessed to my thought. “Yes, Alice! 1 am afraid I did 
think so; though 1 would be a very desolate girl, 1 am sure, with- 
out you.” 

It seemed to move her a little, this that 1 said. Her cheeks red 
dened, and she paused in her work. 

“ If you were older, you would know better,” said Alice; “ after 
the last of them were gone, it was a dreary, dreary time. 1 rose to 
do my work. Miss Hester, and laid me down to sleep and forget 
what a lonesome woman 1 was. Y^hat was it you said this morning 
about the new day cheering you, and the fresh spirit you had wher> 
you woke, howsoever you had been at night! 1 know what that is 
— but after ray troubles, when 1 opened iny eyes, and saw the day- 
light, it made me sick— 1 used to turn my face to the wall, and wish 
and wish that 1 might sleep on, and never wake to think about what 
had befallen me; but still I lived, and still 1 lived, and the break- 
fast, and the dinner, and the common ways were what God had ap- 
pointed me. If 1 said life was trounle and sorrow, would you like 
it better than when its only comfort was quiet, and reading books 
as it is with you?” 

“ Blit it was not all trouble and sorrow, Alice, in these ten 3 ’’ears?” 

Her face changed again a little. 1 knew 1 was urging her to a 
painful subject, yet I did not pause; and I do not think my ques- 
tions grieved her, even though they revived her grief. 

“ When joy turns to sorrow, it’s the sorest grief of all. Miss Hes- 
ter,” said Alice; “no, I was happy beyond the common lot of 
women, but one b}’' one everything I rejoiced in was taken away. 
Yes, that was life — 1 had babies in my arms, and plans for them 
in my heart; 1 was working and contriving for their schooling and 
their clothing, and laying by tor them, and considering in my mind 
how to train them up. We were walking together, striving for 
them, using all our strength, my husband and me. Ay, that was 
life.” 

1 was a little awed by the words, and said nothing. Ail this had 
ceased for Alice— absolutely ceased — yet left a tar sorer blank than 
if it had never been. As 1 looked at her, going on very hurriedly 
with her work, something 1 had been reading came to my mind. 1 
said it aloud, watching her, and wondering if it was true — 

“ I hold it true whate’er befall, 

I feel it when I sorrow most; 

’Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all.” 

Alice turned round to me eagerly, with a tear shining in her eye.. 

“ Don’t you think I’d rather have been without them. Miss Hes- 
ter— don’t you think it now! it’s hard to lose, but it’s blessed to 
have; that’s true— that’s true! J would not have been without one, 
though they’re all gone: 1 have read in books many a time, good 
books, books that v^ere written on purpose to comfort the sorrow- 
ful,” said Alice, sinking to her usual quietness of tone, “ that God 
did but lend our treasures to us, to take them back at His pleasure. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


35 

No, Miss Hester, no!— as sure as they are His, my darling, His first 
and His always, so sure do 1 know that He’s keeping them for me.” 

I was silenced again, and had nothing to say, for the name of God 
then was nothing hul a sound of awe to me. 1 held it in the deep- 
est reveience, this wonderful great name — but Him, the august and 
gracious Person to whom my poor Alice lived her bereaved and 
pious life, was unknown to me. 

And Alice, i believe, had reproached herself already for bringing 
her real griefs, or the shadow of them, to eclipse my cherished dis- 
content. She returned to me with her face lighting up again in its 
cheerful kind humility. 

“ Ay, 3Iiss Hester, that’s life to a woman,” said Alice, ” and, my 
dear, in;i year or two, you will find it waiting for you.” 

But this did not at all chime in with the current of my thoughts. 

‘‘ Do you think, Alice, that a woman is fit tor nothing but to be 
married?” 1 exclaimed fiercely. Poor Alice was taken b}' surprise; 
she had not expected such a flush of sudden displeasure— she paused 
in her work, and looked at my crimsoned face with a glance of real 
apprehension. Alice was old fashioned, and held by many primi- 
tive notions— she did not understand what 1 could mean. 

” Miss Hester, if it’s the nuns you’re thinking of. It’ll break my 
heart,” said Alice. 

”1 am not thinking of the nuns,” cried 1, indignantly, ” why 
should a lady be married any more than Mr. Osborne? Do you 
mean I could not be as well by myself as he is? 1 do not think you 
can have any woman-pride when you speak so, Alice.” 

Alice smiled wuth her eyes wtieu I made this speech, but kept her 
gravity'' otherwise. “To be like Mr. Osborne is nothing much to 
wish lor, my dear,” said Alice quietly, “ but 1 can tell you. Miss 
Hester, it is not Mr. Osborne’s fault that he is living lone in his 
looms, a college gentleman, instead of having his own house, and a 
happy famiy round him— if it had pleased God. Ah! if Mr. Os- 
borne had been the man!” 

“ What do you mean?” said I, quickly; 1 had an instinctive 
suspicion as she spoKe. 

“ Long days ago, before ever your papa knew my dear young 
lady, Mr. Osborne came a-couiting to her,” said Alice, “ and if 
you'd iiave told that merry young gentleman wbat he was to come 
to, he’d have laughed in your face then; he did not choose tor him- 
self in those days to be living all by himself as he does now.” 

“ Mamma again,” said I under my breath, with wonder and curi- 
osity, “ did she break bis heart too?” 

“ To tell the truth Ido not think she did. Miss Hester,” said 
Alice, with a smile; “it’s only a heart here and there, my dear, 
that breaks when it’s crossed in love.” 

“ Alice!” cried 1, horror-stricken at her want of feeling — tor I 
had a very poor opinion of any lieart which would not break in- 
^tanfly^ for such a weighty reason. 

“ She did not break his heart, dear; she only disappointed him.” 
said Alice, “ and 1 never heard how it was that he took so much to 
learning and settled down here; but he never liad any grudge at Miss 
Helen, though' 1 can see he likes you the better for it, that you some- 
times have a look like her sweet tace.” 


36 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


“ She was my raotlier,” said 1 doubtfully, “ but it was cruel of 
her to marry papa, Alice. Why was it, 1 wonder, that so many 
people cared for her?” 

” It was because she deserved better love than she ever got in this 
world,” said Alice with a start. ” Why was it cruel of her to 
inarty your papa. Miss Hester? It tv as cruel of him — she never 
gave him cause to doubt her, she waited on his will as it he had 
been a king; oh! my dear, your papa was hard upon my young 
lad}’’, and all for a fancy of his own.” 

‘‘ It has blighted his life, Alice,” said 1. 

” Your papa is my master. Miss Hester,” said Alice, with some- 
pride, ” and you and 1 can only speak of him as his servant and his 
daughter should; but 1 would have you think upon your mamma, 
sometimes — your dear, sweet, innocent young mother — she never did 
harm to any living creature; she was alw’ays a delight to look upon 
till—” 

” Till what, Alice?” 

” My dear, till her heart broke.” 

Alice moved away without saying another word; this "was a per- 
plexing new light upon ray meditations, but 1 was very reluctant to 
receive it If it should happen that my mother had been miscon- 
ceived and misinterpreted— that she, after all, was the wronged per- 
son, and that my father was to blame, it might have made a great 
difference in the influences which just then were molding my 
mind and life; but 1 rejected this unwelcome conclusion— 1 would 
not permit myself to be convinced of it. 1 clung over again to my 
father, and made my stand by him, and so went on, unconsciously 
determining and ripening for my fate. 

” Don’t lake it ill of me, Miss Hester,” said Alice, coming back,, 
and 1 thought her voice trembled slightly, ‘‘ but never distrust one- 
that cares for you, dear — don’t do it— you can’t tell wliat ill comes of 
it in a house; and when any one speaks to you of a blighted life, be 
you sure it’s his own doing, more or less, and nrd another’s. Take 
heed to your way, darling, there’s not a speck on your life yet ; but 
the cloud rises like a man’s hand. Miss Hester. Pray that it may 
never come to you.” 

” Alice, how can it come to me?” cried 1, trying to smile at her 
earnestness, yet 1 was angry for her implied blame of my father, and 
at the moment Edgar Southcote’s rejected overtures flashed upon 
my mind. Yes! if by any chance these had been accepted, thcf 
curse of my father’s life would have come to me. 1 was silent, op- 
pressed by a vague discomfort; it was foolish, but 1 could not over- 
come it, and Alice did not answer my question, but returned to her 
work once more. 

When Ylary came back with the novel 1 wanted, 1 confess that 1 
ran upstairs with it, and that there ensued an immediate dispersion 
of my thoughts — nor did 1 recall them much till the evening wlien 
1 h d galloped through the three volumes, and was left sitting by 
the fire in the sadden reaction of excitement, to cogitate upon the 
disagreeable necessity common to stories, of coming to an end. My 
father, who from habit and punctilio never returned to the library 
in the evening, sat at the table, as usual, with his bdok, and after a 
little pause of impatience at the conclusion of my tale, 1 resumed 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


37 

tlie thread of my previous meditations. I had been a liltlo startled 
and shaken to-day in my thoughts. To say that 1 was inclined to 
scolf at the youthful notion of a life determined once and forever by 
the misfortune which Alice mentioned as being “ crossed in love/' 
would be to say what was not true — for my ideal belief in this ex- 
traordinary and all-powerful unknown influence was as devout as 
that of any girl or boy of my years, and 1 had an equal admiration 
for that melancholy constant, faithful lover doomed to be unrequited, 
and never to overcome his disappointment, of whose existence many 
a romance had made me aware. But 1 was misanthropical to-night 
from the abrupt ending of my novel— and there was still the greater- 
part of the evening left vacant with no new story to begin — so 1 specu- 
lated with a more skeptical mind than usual upon my great jirob- 
lem. Was it my mother, so many years ago— twenty years or more,, 
a fabulous and unappreciable period, before 1 was born — whose re- 
jection of him had fixed Mr. Osborne in his rooms at Corpus, and 
made the records of his life little belter than a library catalogue? 
Was it my mother, and his disappointment in her, which had cast 
my lather into his existence of aimless and somber dignity? Was 
all this tlie single work of a young girl who died nearly seventeen 
years ago, and who was not rriuch more than twenty when she died? 
1 w-as much perplexed to answer this question; though it flattered 
my pride as a w'oman shortly to enter upon the field myself, and 
perhaps make decisions of equally momentous result to somebody, 
it sadly bewildered my perceptions of right and wrong. 1 felt 
humbled rather than exalted in my own self-opinion by the idea, 
that anything 1 said or did could produce such consequences; and 1 
could not understand about Mr. Osborne. He, with his shrewd 
merry eyes, his regard for rdl his own comforts and luxuries, hi» 
want of sentiment and melancholy — that he should be the disap- 
pointed lover, almost exceeded my powers of belief. I was glad ta 
think that he must have “ got over it,” but 1 was greatly puzzled 
to make the conclusion whether it could be this that decided the 
manner of his life. 

My father was extremely absorbed in his book to-night — more 
than usually so, 1 thought; and 1 am afraid that circumstance made 
me still more disposed to question him, unoccupied and idle as 1 
w^as. 1 had disturbed him two or three times already by stirring 
the fire, and moving m}’^ seat, and had perceived his quick upward 
glance of impatience, but 1 was not deterred from beginning my in- 
vestigations. 

” Papa, have you known Mr. Osborne a very long time?” said 1, 
looking at his face in the lamplight, and at the ray of reflection- 
which came from the diamond on his finger. He looked up sharply 
as it not quite comprehending. 

” Known Mr. Osborne? — yes, a long time, Hester — since I was a. 
boy.” 

“ And do you know why he lives here— why he is not married, 
papa?” I continued, quietly. 

My father looked up with a smile. ” He is not married because 
he did not choose it, 1 suppose; and because he is a fellow, and has. 
his income on that condition. Osborne ia a scholar, and not a family 
man.” 


38 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


“ 1 wonder now what is the good of being a scholar?” said 1. ” Is 
Air, Osborne poor? dees he do it for the sake ot his income? Yes! 
1 know all these colleges are for making scholars — but, then, what 
13 the good of it, papa?” 

” Hester, you speak like a child,” said my father, with a little 
linger; ” you might say in the same foolish words w’hat is the good 
of anything — what is the good ot life?” 

” And so 1 do,” said 1, with a little terror, and in an undertone. 

” So! 1 have a young misanthrope on my hantis — have 1?” said 
my father; “ we will not enter on that question, but return to JMr. 
Osborne, if you please, for 1 am busy. Are you very sorry for Mr, 
Osborne, Hester?” 

“No, papa,” said 1. 

” 1 am glad to hear it— there is no such prolific source ot evil in 
the workir” said my father, gradually becoming vehement, “ as lalse 
and injudicious pdy — take care you never let that fictitious principle 
sway your conduct, Hester. Justice — let every man have justice — 
nnd he who is not content with that deserves no more.” 

He ceased abruptly, and returned to his book with a stern face. 
This was enough for me; all my questionings disappeared at once, 
in the greatness of my sympathy tor my father. 1 thought again 
upon Edgar Southcore and upon his “generous impulse.” 1 im- 
oonsciously associated myselt with my father, and took his place, 
and tried to fancy the intolerable misery with w'hich 1 should feel 
the substitution of pity and generosity in my owui case, for that un- 
known love, that wonderful visionary influence wduch w^as in my 
favorite stories, and in my girlish dreams— and my heart returned 
1o its former confidence in my father, and passionate feeling of his 
great wrong. His life had been blighted — w'ho could deny it!— he 
who was so well worthy of the loftiest affection, he had found noth- 
ing l)etter than pity in its place. 

It is not my wish to trace all w'e did hour b}' hour in our solitary 
house, or 1 might record many a day like this. This was not a day 
of very vital moment in my life— but it wms one which confirmed 
into singular strength and obstinacy the influences which have 
guided and led me through many a more momentous day. 


THE FIFTH DAY. 

All this day, with a degree of expectation and excitement, ot 
which 1 felt somewhat ashamed, I had been preparing for a ])arty to 
which, at the instance of Mr. Osborne, 1 was to go in the evening. 
It was a ridiculous thing for a girl of nineteen— that was my age 
mow — to think so much of a party which was by no means a great 
party, nor had anything remarkable about it; but, though 1 was so 
old, 1 had never been out anywhere before, and much as 1 denied it 
to myself, this was really an event for me. Our days were all so 
like each other, of such a uniform color and complexion, that it was 
something to be roused even, to anxiety for a liecoming dress. We 
were not precisely poor— this old house in which we lived was my 
lather’s property, and though I did not know wdiat was the amount 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


39 ^ 

of the income which he inherited, along with this house, from his 
mother, I knew it was enough to maintain us in comtort', and' that 
nothing in the household was ever straitened. But, 1 had never 
gone out in the evening before, and 1 did not very well know what 
to wear. Alice and 1 had a great many consultations on the 
subject. For my own part, 1 thought white muslin was only suit- 
able for girls, and very young people, and at nineteen 1 no longer 
thought myself very young; and 1 had no patience for the pink 
and blue in which dolls were dressed as well as young ladies— it 
was very hard to please me — and the question remained still unde- 
cided, even to the afternoon of this very day. 

When I w'ent up to my room ami summoned Alice tor our last 
deliberation, i found a white muslin dress elaborately propped up 
on a chair, waiting my inspection at one side of my dressing-table; 
and at the other— yes, 1 was no stoic, I confess to a throb of pleas- 
ure which 1 can still recollect and feel— at the other rich full folds 
of silk, of what 1 thought, tor a moment, the most beautiful color 
in the world, a soft creamy amber crossed with white attracted my 
delighted eye. Alice stood behind me, watching the effect it w^ould 
have, and Alice, 1 am sure, had no reason to be disappointed; bMt 
when 1 cried eagerly, “ Where did you get it, AliceV” the smile 
faded from her kind face. 

“ My dear, it was given to your mamma just before you were 
born,” said Alice; ‘‘ and she would not permit it to be made, for 1 
don’t doubt. Miss Hester, she had a thought how it was to happen 
with her— and from ihat day to this, lhave kept it safe, and nobody 
has ever known of it but me; and 1 thought 1 would lake upon me 
to have it made. Miss Hester. Dear! you have very few things that 
were your mamma’s.” 

I expressed no more delight after that. 1 almost think she thought 
me angry, her explanation silenced me so suddenly; but she said no 
more, and neither did 1. There were other little things arranged for 
me on my table which 1 turned to with measured salislaction. 1 
think poor Alice was disappointed now, for 1 saw her casting fur- 
tive glances at me as she smoothed down the silk with a tender 
hand, trying as 1 thought to draw my attention to it; and 1 would 
gladly have spoken, if I could, to please her; but 1 wus strangely 
moved by this occurrence, and could not speak. 

And when 1 came up again to dress, and Alice began to brush out 
my hair, 1 saw her face in the glass, and that it was troubled and 
tears were in her eyes. She did not think 1 saw her, while she stood 
beLind me busy with m}' hair, and when she looked up and saw 
that ray eyes were fixeci upon her in the glass, she started and red- 
dened, and was painfully confused for a moment. 1 knew what 
she was thinking — sbe was pained in her good heart for what she 
thought the hardness of mine. 

When I was dressed and looked in the mirror again, 1 scarcely 
knew myself in my unusual splendor. Vet 1 was not very splendid 
— 1 bad not a single ornament, not so much as a ring or bracelet — 
and ] am not sure that the color of my dress was llie best in the 
W'orld for my brown hair; but 1 had a very fair complexion, Alice 
said, and some color in my cheeks, though 1 was not ruddjq and 
my uncovered arms with their very sliort sleeves and rich frill of 


THE DAYS or MY LIFE. 


40 

lace,' and tbe unnsual elaboration of my hair, and the beaulitul 
material of my dress made me look a very different person from 
the plain, every-day gin who had entered ihe room an hour before. 

“ There is one thing I would like to have,” said 1, as 1 contem- 
plated my own appearance, and saw with how much proud, yet 
tremulous satisfaction, Alice stood behind, arranging the folds of 
my dreso, and regulating, with anxious touches, the beautiful trim- 
mings of lace, and the braids of my hair. 

“ What is that, dear?” cried Alice, eagerly. 

“ One of the roses that you brought from Gottis woode — one from 
that tree— to put here at my breast,” said 1. ” Alice, I will think 

all to-night that this dress is from mamma.” 

Alice kissed me suddenly before I had finished speaking. 

Lord bless my darling!” she said in a low voice, turning her 
lace away from me; I knew she did so that 1 might not see how 
very near crying she was. 

When I went to show myself to my father— he was not going, but 
a lady, a friend of Mr, Osborne’s, was to come for me— he looked 
ut-iue with some surprise. 

” What fairy princess gave you your gown, Hester?” he said, 
with a smile. I could not help hesitating and looking embarrassed, 
when 1 answered almost under my breath — 

” Alice had it, papa.” 

He became grave immediately, and the color flushed to his cheek. 
Then he opened a cabinet which always stood in his library, both 
here and at Gottis woode, and took out a box. 

” These are yours, Hester— it is time they were given to you,” 
lie said, almost with coldness; “you will use your owui discretion 
in wearing them, only I beg you vvill not show them to me to- 
night. Good-night, >ny love, take what pleasure you can, and be 
ready when your friend calls tor you — good night!” 

1 carried the box away mechanically, and returned to the drawing- 
room to wait for Mrs. Boulder. 1 was surprised, but still sufficient- 
3y curious to open the box at once. It contained a number of 
smaller morocco jewel cases, which 1 examined eagerly; i was as 
ignorant as my father of the ancient fashion of these ornaments, 
but 1 think an uncultivated and savage taste such as mine was is gen- 
erally disappointed with the appearance of precious stones. 1 was 
extremely interested, but 1 did not admire them, and that 1 should 
wear them did not occur to me at the first moment. But there was 
one little spot of quivering living light which changed my opinion, 
it was a small diamond pendant attached to a very little chain, which 
puzzled me into a deliberation whether it was intended for the neck 
or the arm. 1 tried it on, however, and settled the question in the 
most satisfactory manner possible; and then there was a bracelet of 
pearls, and then— but Mrs. Boulder’s carriage came up to the door 
w'ith a great rush and din, and 1 hurried aw'ay my store of treasures, 
iind suffered myself to be wrapped up, and went away to make my 
.first entrance into the world. 

The worhl 1 had 1 been a boy 1 would have been an adventurer, 
and sought my forlune in toils, and fights, and travel; but it wms 
strange to look round upon this Gambridge dravs ing-room, and 
think of it and of its well-dressed commonplace company as repre- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


41 

sentiDg the great stormy universe, of which 1 had my grand thoughts 
like every other inexperienced spirit. There was a large company, 
1 thought, being unused to evening parties. Mr, Osborne and a. 
lew more of his rank and standing, scholars who looked shorn and 
diminished for want of their habitual cap and gown, some young- 
undergraduates, and a background of county people made up the 
number— and a stray lion from London, who had been caught in 
the neighboihood, was reported to be somewhere in the room. My 
chaperon, Mrs. Boulder, was a professor’s wite, and herself a 
scientific person, who seldom condescended to talk of anything but 
literature, geology, and the gossip of the colleges; she was very much 
interested about this unknown author. From the sola where she 
had established herself, and where her professional black satin 
sweiM its ample folds over my pretty dress, she was constantly 
thrusting her head into the groups of people who gathered before 
her, searching with her spectacles for somebody who might be the 
distinguished visitor. 

“ That musi be he, talking to the master,” she exclaimed; ” no„ 
there is another stranger, 1 declare, a very remarkable-looking per- 
son, beside Mr. Selwyn. 1 wonder wliy nobody brings him to 
me. Mr. Osborne— Mr. Osborne! Professor! ] can not make any 
of them hear me; my love, would you mind stepping to Mr. Os- 
borne. There he is talking to that very old Fellow. Cali him to 
me.” 

1 rose with considerable trepidation to obey — an old Fellow, it 
must be understood, is by no means a contemptuous expression in 
a university town; and this was a very old white-haired man with 
whom Mr. Osborne was engaged. He held out his hand, when I 
came up to him, and looked at me with a glance of pleased satisfac- 
tion, almost as it he were proud of me, which warmed my heart in 
spite of myself. 1 told my message, but he made no haste to obey 
it. He only nodded his head, with a smile, in answer to Mrs, 
Boulder’s urgent beckoning. 

“ Should you tike to see him, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne; ‘‘ there 
he is, that youhg dandy there, among all the young ladies— he pre- 
fers worshipers to critics, like a sensible man. Should you like to 
hear the great lion roar, Hester?” 

” I am very glad to have seen him,” said I, ” but he has enough 
of worshipers. No, thank you: but Mrs. Boulder wants to see 
him, Mr. Osborne.” 

“Presently,” he said, once more nodding at that tantalized and 
impatient lady, “ presently— and how do you like the party, Hes- 
ter?” 

“ 1 like very well to look at it,” said 1, glancing round the hand- 
some, well-proportioned, well-lighted raom; “it is a picture; butl 
do not know any one here.” 

“TVe will remedy that by and by,” said Mr. Osborne; “see,, 
there is something to look at in the meantime; and 1 will bring Mrs. 
Boulder to you here.” 

As he spoke, he wheeled in a chair for me, close to a table, covered 
with plates and drawings. I could not help being pleased at the 
kindness of his manner and tone, and at the pride he seemed to have 
in me, as if he wished other people to see that 1 belonged to him. 


42 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

A- young man was standing at the table, minutely examining some 
of the prints— at least, 1 supposed so, they occupied him so long; 
and the old gentleman who had been speaking to 31r. Osborne, re- 
mained by me when he went to Mrs. Boulder, and said a word now 
and then” to encourage me, and set me at my ease 1 thought— for 
1 was shy and embarrassed, and not very comfortable at being left 
alone The young man on the other side of the table— how very 
long he held that print! it made me impatient to watch his ex- 
amination of it, and ashamed of myself for finding so little in the 
others to detain me. When he laid it down at last — it was one of 
those street landscapes of the old quaint Flemish towns — the old 
gentleman made some remark upon it, and the 3mung one replied. 
They had both been there. I have no doubt that was the reason 
why he looked at it so long. 

“ These Low Countries— you have not seen them. Miss rfouth- 
cote?” said Mr. Osborne’s friend, “ they are about as dull and un- 
impressive as out own Cambridgeshire.” 1 had a great deal of local 
pride and was piqued at this — it restored me to my self-possession 
better than his kindness had done, 

” Do you think Cambridgeshire is unimpressive?” 1 asked quick- 
ly, looking up at him, 

” Why, yes, I confess 1 think so,” said the old fellow. “ 1 have 
forgotten my native fells a little, after living here nearly fifty years; 
but 1 have never learned yet to find any beauty in the country 
here. Pray what are its impressive features, Miss Southcoter” 

1 paused a moment that I might not be angry. “ There is the 
sky,” said 1. 

The youth on the other side of the table bent toward me to listen; 
Ihe old gentleman laughed a polite little critical laugh. ‘‘ The sky 
is scarcely a part of the Cambridgeshire scenery, lam afraid,’’ he 
said. 

As 1 paused, not quite knowing what to answer, the young man 
came to my aid. ‘‘ 1 am not sure of that, sir,” he said, with a look 
of eagerness, which struck me with some wonder. ” The sky is as 
much a portion of the Cambridgeshire scenery as Michael Angelo’s 
roof is a part of the Sistine chapel. Where else have you such an 
extent of cloud and firmament? You must yield us the sky.” 

” The sky belongs equally to every county in England, and to 
every country in the world,” said our white-haired critic. ” 1 will 
yield you no such thing— there is but one Sistine chapel in the 
world, and one root belonging to it. You must find a better argu- 
ment,” 

” You can see so far— you are bounded by nothing but heaven,” 
said 1. 

“Yes,” said my new supporter, “ there is the true sense of in- 
finitude in that wonderful vast blank of horizon; you never find the 
same thing in a hilly country, and it is perfect of its kind.” 

My young assailants,” said the old gentleman smiling, “ if you 
mean to maintain that your county has no features at all, 1 have no 
controversy with you; that is exactly my own opinion.” 

It happened that as we both glanced up indignantly, and both 
paused, hesitating what next to say to such an obdurate infitlel, our 
eyes met. He looked at me earnestly, almost sadly, and with a 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


43 


rising color— 1 felt my cheeks burn, 5"et could not help returning 
his gaze for an instant. It was a contemplative face, with fine and 
regular features, and large dark bine eyes; the oval outline of the 
cheeks was quite smooth, and the complexion dusky and almost 
colorless; but 1 w’as sui prised to find m3’'self wondering over this- 
stranger’s features, as if they were familiar to me. \Yhere was it 
possible 1 could have seen them before? but, indeed, if he w-^as a Cam- 
bridgeshire man, as his words implied, it w^as easy to account for 
having seen him. 

For the moment, looking at each other, we forgot the cause w e 
were defending, and our antagonist stood contemplating us with a 
pleasant smile; he did not say anything, but when 1 looked up and 
caught his eye, 1 withdrew^ my own in confusion. 1 did not know 
why, and there was, indeed, no cause; but though 1 could not ex- 
plain, 1 felt a strange embarrassment, and hastened to speak to shake 
it off. 

“ 1 know what 1 mean, though 1 may not be able to say it,” said 
1. ‘‘1 think in our country you are never master of the landscape — 
you can never see it all, as you could if it was shut in with hills; 
it is always greater than you — and it is because our eyes are not 
able, and not because there is any obstacle in nature, that w'e can not 
see twice as far— to the end of tlie world.” 

‘‘It is quite true,” said the j^oung man, hurriedly, ” these flat 
fields are boundless like the sky— or like a man’s desires which are 
limited by nothing but heaven.” 

‘‘ My dear boy, a man’s desires are limited by very trifles, some- 
times,” said our old friend; ‘‘ happy are they whose wishes reach 
like your Cambridge fields as far as the horizon. If 3^011 come to 
that,” he continued, going on with a smile, ‘‘ and give a figurative 
significance to these dreary levels, 1 wdll not quarrel with 3^011. In 
my North-country, which, by the way, 1 have quite lost acquaintance 
W'ith— the extent’^of our ambition is, to have our hills recognized as 
mountains, and get to the top of them; but your land, 1 confess. 
Miss Southcote, gets to the sky as soon as we do; there is no dis- 
pute about that.” 

t was obliged to be content with this, satirical as it was, and be- 
gan to occupy myself immediatel3'' wdth the prints on the table. The 
old gentleman fell back a slep, and began conversing with some one 
else." The youth still stood opposite^ holding an engraving in his 
hands and going over it minutely. It w’as very strange— 1 can not 
tell how it came about — but in this crow’ded room, and among all 
these echoes of conversation, 1 felt m3^se.lf in some extraordinary 
way alone wu'th this young stranger. 1 never lifted my eyes from 
the picture before me, yet 1 was aware of every motion he made— 
and though he did not once look up, 1 felt his eye upon rne. We 
did not exchange a single W’ord, but we remained opposite each 
other perfectly still, watching each other with a sort of fascination. 
1 do not know how the time' went for those few moments— 1 know 
it looked like an hour to me before Mrs. Boulder came back; yet 
wdien she did come back, she exclaimed at having lost sight of me 
for full ten minutes, and began to overpower me with an account 
of the unknown lion, and the clever things he said— and to pull 


44 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


about and turn over the prints which had been passing so slowly and 
so unwittingly through my hands. 

Mrs. Boulder liad not been seated by our table tor five minutes when 
she bad a ring of potent people round her, whom she had called out 
of the crowd. 1 sat by lier timidly on a stocl, which some one 
brought me when 1 gave up my easy-chair to the great lady — ana 
bent my head, half with awkwardness and halt to find breathing- 
room, oppressed as 1 was by the bulky figure of the protessor lean- 
ing over me in earnest discussion with another pillar of learning. 
Mr. Osborne was not far oS; but though this might be pleasant 
enough for Mrs. Boulder, who was the center of the group, it was 
very much the reverse for me, stifled and overwhelmed by half a 
dozen people pressing over me to pay tbeir court to tire eminent 
woman, who had taken charge of a bewildered and shy girl to her 
own inconvenience, and who, if she ever thought of me at all, 
thought no doubt that 1 was only too greatly privileged, had 1 been 
entirely, instead of only half, stifled with the pressure of this learned 
crowd. But the young stranger whom 1 followed, not with my 
eyes, but with my attention, remained still very near us, and still I 
felt strongly that though our eyes had only met once, we had been 
observing each (>ther all the time. 

1 saw Mr. Osborne speak to liim, as to a familiar acquaintance — 
1 saw him honored with a nod from Mrs. Boulder— and 1 wondered 
greatly who he was. He was certainly not older than m 3 ’^selt, and 
of a slight youthful figure, which made him look even younger, I 
thought— was be a Cambridge man? a traveler, though so young, 
and a scholar too, of course, or he would not be here. 1 was very 
curious about this young man; would he speak to me again? whafc 
could we have to do with each other which could account for this 
strange mutual attraction? for 1 felt suretliathe was wondering and 
inquiiing in his own mind about me, as 1 was about him. 

After a little while, he drew nearer to us, and joined our little 
circle, and turning round to answer some question for Mr. Osborne, 
1 was surprised to find him by my side. Then, still under cover of 
the prints, he spoke to me. 1 would have gladly spoken to any one 
else, but 1 was uncomfoTtably embarrassed, 1 could not tell why, 
in speaking to him. He began to tell me about those Dutch 
towns, and then we returned to talk of our own country, and in- 
sensibly grew into a kind of acquaintance. Then when the greater 
people dispersed, Mrs. Boulder perceived him, and entered into a 
condescemiing conversation with him, toirching, in a professional 
tone, on the progress of his studies, and putting hard questions to 
him, which puzzled and somewhat irritated me. He answered them 
qiiietly and with a smile, and was evidently in great favor with her; 
and still 1 sat by watching him, and still he stood at my side ob- 
serving me. 

“ How well he gets on!’' said Mrs. Boulder, in a loud whisper to 
Mr. Osborne, behind her chair. Mrs. Boulder did not think it 
necessary to conceal her favorable judgment from the happy object 
of it. 

" Who? oh! Harry Edgar,” said Mr. Osborne, glancing at him; 
“that will be a distinguished man!” 

1 had nothing to do with it, yet it pleases me, and set me on a new 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


45 

train of questions— bow could he distinguish himself? not after the 
fashion of my heroes— not like Columbus or Bonaparte- in books 
then, 1 supposed. Now 1 had few liteiary tastes, though 1 read 
novels with devotion; yet 1 paused to marvel what kind of books 
they could be which should distinguish this youth; but without 
finding an}'' answer to my secret question. More than ever now was 
1 anxious about him. 1 wondered what he was thinking now— 
what he would think to-morrow. 1 felt a great desire to see into 
the mind of my new acquaintance, not by any means to see how he 
thought, or if he thought at all, of me; it was simply himself w^hom 
1 wanted to understand. Harry Edgar— 1 dfd not think it was a 
Cambridgeshire name— it sounded hard to me, like a North-country 
one; but it did not ihrow the least light upon who he was. 

When Mr. Osborne put me into Mrs. Boulder’s carriage at the 
door, 1 saw Mr. Edgar’s face again turned toward us for a moment. 
He, too, was going away; and when Mr. Osborne asked me how 1 
liked the party, it was with difficulty 1 restrained the words on my 
lips, “ 1 wonder who he is?” 1 had no doubt he was thinking the 
same of me; yet 1 am sure we were not attracted by each other, as 
people might suppose, who heard what 1 say. For my part, it was 
a species of infatuation. 1 did not either likeor dislike this stranger; 
but somehow 1 wanted to penetrate his thoughts, and to know what 
manner of man he was. 

Alice, of course, was wailing for me, and a fire was burning in 
my room, to make it more cheerful. When Alice loosed oQ; the 
great shawl 1 was wrapped in, 1 could not comprehend, for a mo- 
ment, what caused her sudden exclamation of pleasure, and the heavy 
sigh with which it was followed. It was the little diamond orna- 
ment which 1 w'ore round my neck. 1 had forgotten it. Yes, this 
had been my mother’s too; but 1 was tired and sleepy, and not 
communicative. Had I liked the party? Y^es, 1 thought 1 had — 
pretty well— quite as much as 1 expected; sometimes it was very 
pretty— that was taking it in the picture point of view, for 1 did 
not think it necessary to tell Alice how 1 had been interested by the 
stranger. What a pity, 1 thought, that he was a young man! for 
people would laugh at me if 1 expressed any interest in him. 

So I lay down to rest in the firelight, to watch the ruddy shadows 
dancing on the walls, and wakefully and long to consider this even- 
ing and all its novelties. It was all novel to me. My dress and my 
jewels were enough to have waked me a little out of the usual torpor 
of my life; but this party, which I had been rather ashamed of de- 
siring to go to, 1 felt 1 should never forget it now. Why? 1 could 
not tell why; but I went to sleep wondering which was Harry 
Edgar’s college, and -what he might be thinking of. 1 even looked 
into the future with a little eagerness, marveling what sort of career 
his was to be, as if 1 should ever know more of him. It was very 
strange, for certainly his thoughts, and the subjects they might be 
occupied with, were nothing to me. 


46 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


THE SIXTH DAY. 

1 WAS out upon a bouseholrl errand to order something for Alice. 
My father and Alice conspired to keep me still as free of cares, and 
almost of duties, as a child. Alice attended to everything. She 
was a good, careful housekeeper, long accustomed to our house and 
ways, and needed no help in the administration of our domestic 
economy; though, perhaps, it would have been better for me if 1 
had been led to these homely occupations, and found something 
tangible to employ my mind and thoughts. It was spring — one of 
those fresh, sunny, showery, boisterous days wiiieh are so pleasant 
to 3muth. 1 liked my quiet walk along the narrow, old-fashioned 
streeis— 1 liked the wind which blew my hair loose from my bonnet, 
and swept the clouds along the blue, blue sky, rushing past the tur- 
rets and pinnacles of the collegiate buildings. 1 was young, and my 
heart rose with the vague and causeless exhilaration of youth, i 
scarcely cared to think, but went on with a pure delight in the 
motion and life which 1 had within me. 1 was pleased to feel the 
shawl escaping from my hand, and my hair curling upon the breeze; 
and if my step was not quite so bold as its girlish freedom permitted 
live years ago, it was as firm a tread as it had been among our own 
fields, or in the lanes that led to Cottiswoode. 

1 had done my errand, and was going home; but I was scarcely 
contented to return so soon, and would have walked a mile or two 
wMth pleasure. When 1 came to the paved alley, by St. Beuet’s, 
which was the nearest way to our house, 1 paused a moment in un- 
certainty, thinking where 1 should go; but just as 1 was about to 
turn indhe opposite direction, 1 started to hear Mr. Osborne’s voice 
behind me. “ Running away, Hester? — nay, 1 want you at home 
to-day; come back and tell me how^ your father is.” 

1 turned round. Mr. Osborne was not alone. Standing a little 
apart from him, out of regard to his meeting vAith me, was the 
young man who had so strangely interested me at the part}'. 1 
glanced at him involuntarily, and so did he at me; but w’e had no 
warrant for knowing each other, and I drew apart as he did, as it bv 
instinct. Mr. Osborne W'as not paying the least attention to his 
companion, and seemed quite careless of him, wdiether he stayed or 
went aw'ay; and the wind at that moment w^as playing veiystrange 
pranks with the elder gentleman's gown, so that, what with keep- 
ing it in order, and addressing me, Mr. Osborne had quite enough 
to do. 

” My father is very well,” 1 said. ‘‘ He is at home, of course. 
Are you going to see him?” 

‘‘lam going to tell him how his daughter behaved on her en- 
trance into the world,” said Mr. Osborne, with mock importance. 
” Were you very much impressed by your first experiences, Hester? 
There, now% that is a little better. We are, at least, out of the road 
of that vagabond breeze.” 

We had turned into the alley, and 1 had been waiting for Mr. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


47 

Osborne’s j^oung acquaintance to leave us; l)ut he walked on stead- 
ily at the other side, and showed no disposition lo go away. 1 did 
not quite like answering Mr. Osborne’s questions before this stranger; 
he made me feel so disagreeably conscious of all my own words and 
movements. 1 no longer did anything easily, but became aware of 
every step I made. 

" Have you not seen him since that night?” said I. ” It is quite 
a Icng lime ago.” 

” That night— so it did make some impression on my young de- 
butante,’' said Mr. Osborne, with a smile. “ Do you know 1 have 
been out ot Cambridge tor nearly three weeks, you forgetful young 
lady? Well, Hester, what of that night?” 

“ What of it, Mr. Osborne?” said 1, with some little indignation. 

1 suppose there w^as nothing very' extraordinary about it.” 

Mr. Osborne laughed, and 1 was provoked. 

” There only was a crowd of people — theie is nothing remarkable 
in a crowed,” said 1, impetuously. ” Why should I think about, it? 
You do not suppose that 1 take a party like that for the w'orld?” 

” What do you call the world, then, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne. 

” 1 do not know,” said 1. hesitating a little. ” 1 can not tell,” 1 
repeated, after another pause; ” but 1 suppose there is as much ot 
it here as there was yonder. I think so, at least.” 

” So that is the verdict of youth, is it?” said Mr. Osborne. 
” Harry, my boy, what say you?” 

I could not help turning my head quickly toward him, but 1 did 
not raise niy eyes; how 1 woniiei-ed what he would say! 

” The party has sometimes more influence on a life than the street 
can have,” said the young man, with hesitation; ‘‘otherwise, 1 
have no doubt, a thronged anit busy street in London would look 
more like the tvorld than a Cambridge drawing-room— but some- 
times the drawing-room makes a greater mark in a life ” 

” My good youth, you are less intelligible than Hester,” said Mr. 
Osborne, ” but the young lady has no metaphysical bias that 1 know 
of, so w’e will not discuss the question. So we wu^re very prosy, 
were we, the other night? and you w^ere nearly smothered under the 
professor’s shadow, and had nothing bin pictures to look at, poor 
child! The next one will be better, Hester— do not be dismai'ed.” 

I made no answer. 1 was piqued at Mr. Osborne’s mockery; but 
1 wondered over what the other had said — what did he mean by the 
drawing-room making a mark in his life? Had it made any mark 
in mine? why should it? and why was he walking along so quietly 
by Mr. Osborne’s side, without the least intention of going away? 
1 saw that he kept his eyes away from me, as carefully as 1 kept 
mine from him; but we observed each other for all that. His walk 
was rather slow and steady — he was not quick and impetuous as I 
was; 1 wanted to hasten on, for 1 was embarrassed a little, not 
knowing anything about “society,” and being quite at a loss to 
know whether 1 was acquainted with this stranger or not; but, of 
course, Mr. Osborne continued his leisurely pace, and so did his 
young companion. They made me impatient, and almost irritated 
me — they went on so quietly. 

When we came to the door, 1 opened it hastily, for it was an old- 
fashioned, unsuspicious door, and opened from the outside. Ihea 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


48 

in my awkwardness 1 went down the two steps which led from it; 
and stood below in the close waiting for Mr. Osborne. 1 was in a 
111 tic tremor of expectation— what was he going to do? 

“ I think 1 may* presume on your father and yourself, Hester, so 
far as to ask my young friend to come in with me,” said Mr. Os- 
borne, ‘‘ tor we have some business together. This is Mr. Harry 
Edgar, Miss Soulhcote— will you admit him within your pre- 
cincts?” 

Of course 1 had to make a little awkward bow to him, and 1 do 
not think his was much more graceful; and then I hurriedly led the 
wa}’^ into the house. Mr. Osborne went directly to the library, and 
1 called Alice to show Mr. Edgar upstairs; then 1 ran to my own 
room to take off my bonnet. Must 1 go to the drawing room, where 
he was sitting alone? 1 thought it was very unpleasant— 1 felt ex^- 
tremely confused and awkward — yet 1 smoothed my hair, and pre- 
pared to go. 

When 1 went into the room he was looking at the pictures— those 
dark, hard panel portraits on the wall, and with some interest, as I 
thought — though, when 1 came, he, too, grew a little embarrassed 
like me. 1 went to my work-table immediately to look out some 
work; for 1 could not sit idle and talk to him. There were count- 
less little bits of work lying halt completed in my work-table; 1 
had no difficulty in finding occupation, and when 1 had selected 
one, 1 sat down by the window and wished for Mr. Osborne, lie 
ought to know better than to leave me alone here. 

There was nothing at all to keep us from the necessity of talking 
to each other, for he immediately gave up looking at the portraits, 
and the room was in fatal good order, and all the books put away.^ 
After the first awkward pause, he said something about the pictures — 

” They were family portraits, no doubt.” 

“No,” said 1 — ” that is, they are not Southcotes; they are por- 
traits of grandmamma’s family, 1 suppose, but we always count 
our fancily on the other side.” 

Then we came to another dead pause, and Mr. Edgar advanced to 
the window where 1 sat. 

” How fresh and green your garden looks!” he said, after the 
fashion of people who must say something. ” What a good effect 
the grass has! Are there really blossoms on the trees? How early 
everything is thisyearl” 

‘‘We are well sheltered,” said 1, in the same tone. ” Our trees 
are always in blossom before our neighbors.” 

“ And that is old Corpus,” be said, glancing out at the little 
gleaming windows of the college—” all this youth and lite out of 
doors contrasts strangely enough, 1 am sure, with the musty exist- 
ence within.” 

” The books must he musty, but 1 don’t think the existence is,’" 
said I, rashly; ” everybody ought t(> be happy that has something 
to do.” 

” Yes. 1 always envy a hard student who has an object,” said 
Mr. Edsrar, rather eagerly seizing upon this possibility of conversa- 
tion. “He is a happy fellow who has a profession to study for; 
otherwise it is vanity and vexation of spirit,” 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 49 

Now 1 liad ti strong instinct of conlradintion in me— a piece of 
assertion always provoked me to resistance. 

“ 1 do not know iiow ibat can be,” said 1, “ 1 suppose Mr. Os- 

borne only lives for his books, and his spirit shows veiy little vexa- 
tion or vanity; and papa does nothing else but study, and can not 
have any object in it— 1 think a good thing ought to be good for its 
own sake.” 

” JMr. Osborne is a very busy man. He has a great many pur- 
suits,” said my new friend; “ he is not a fair example. e have 
an enthusiasm for booKs when we are young, and seek inspiration, 
from them, and then we come back to them, that they may deaden 
our own feelings and recollections, after we have had a life of our 
own— when we are old.” 

” You are not old, to be aware of that,” cried 1, though 1 secretly 
thought that, at least, in my father’s case, this m’ght be true. 

” 1 have lived a very solitary life,” he said, ” which is almost as 
good as gray hairs.” 

After that we paused again, very conscious of our silence, but 
finding conversation a very difficult matter. X was more at my ease 
than 1 had expected. 1 observed him, but not with the same in- 
tense observation. A person 1 knew by name, and spoke to in my 
father’s house, was a less mysteriously interesting person than the 
stranger who liad attracted my nodce so much, where all were 
stramrers. At last Mr. Jidgar began to talk again; it was only ta 
ask me if 1 had seen the great author who was at the party where 
he met me first — he did not say ” had the pleasure to meet.” 

” 1 saw him, but 1 did not speak to him— nor even hear him 
speak.” said 1. 

Another pause— what were we to say? ” Do you like his books?’* 
said the young man. 

” 1 do not care for any books but novels,” said 1 bluntly. 1 am 
afraid 1 was not above a wish to shock and horrify him. 

Mr. Edgar laughed a little, and his color rose, 1 am sure 1 did 
what i could to give him an unfavorable impression of me, in this 
our first interview. He said — 

” You are very honest, Miss Southcote— ” 

1 can not tell how it was, either that he presumed so far, or that 
1 Suspected it — but 1 certainly did think he had a great mind to say 
Hester, instead of ]\Iiss Southcote, and only checked himself by an 
efioit. It was veiy strange— 1 felt haughty immediately, but 1 
scarcely felt displeased; and i am sure there was a consciousness in 
the deep color that rose upon his face, and in my tone as 1 answered 
him. 

” 1 am only telling the truth,” said 1. “ I can not help it ; when 

books are only thoughts 1 would rather think myself. A story is 
a different matter; 1 am very sorry for my dullness, but 1 think 
there are no really pleasant books except those which tell a story.” 

‘‘Even that limit reaches to something more tlian novels,” said 
Mr. Edgar, ‘‘ there is histoty, and biography best lies.” 

“Yes— but then 1 only care for them for the mere story’s 
sake,” said 1, ” and not because they are true or good, or for any 
better reason. I suppose a man’s life is often more like a novel 
than like anything else— only, perhaps, not so arranged. The mis- 


50 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


fortunes do not come m so conveniently, and neither do the pleas- 
ures. 1 ttiink reading a novel is almost next best to having some- 
thing to do.” 

” lam afraid some of us think it a superior good, now and then,” 
«aid my companion. 

And so our talk came to an abrupt conclusion again. It was my 
liirn to make a new beginning, and 1 could not. 1 did not like to 
ask him any question about himself — which was his college, or if 
he was a Cambridgeshire man, or any ot the things 1 wished to 
know; and, as 1 glanced up at his thoughtful face, 1 once more fell 
^-pondering what he could be thinking of. 1 do not recollect that 
1 had ever much curiosity about other people’s thoughts before. 
•My father alwa 3 's had a book before him, which he read, or made a 
pretense of reading, and my father’s meditations were sacred to me. 
1 guessed at them with reverence, but it would have been sacrilege to 
inquire into them. As my established right, 1 claimed to know what 
Alice was thinking of, and did not need to wonder; but here, with 
the full charm of a mystery whicli 1 could not inquire into, came 
back upon me my first curiosity about this stranger. Either his lace 
did not express what was in his mind, or I was not acquainted with 
its language. What was he thinking ot? — what did he generally 
think ot? 1 wondered over his thoughts so much that 1 had no 
leisure to think of himself who was standing beside me, though still 
1 was strangely aware of every movement he made. 

Just then 1 heard my father and Mr. Osborne ascending the 
■stairs; 1 was half sorry, and yet altogether glad that they were 
coming — and 1 was a little curious to see how my father woukt re 
ceive my new acquaintance. My father received him with stately 
politeness, distant but not ungracious, and Mi. Osborne and betook 
their usual places, and began their ordinary conversation. When 
Mr. Edgar joined in it, 1 discovered from what they said that he 
was a student of Corpus, a close neighbor, and it amused me a little 
to w^atch the three gentlemen as they talked; of course, my father 
and Mr. Osborne were in the daily habit of talking, without any 
greater reference to me than it 1 bad been a very little girl with a 
doll and a pinafore. 1 was not intellectual, i did not care for 
their discussions about books — and 1 expected no shaie in their con- 
versation, nor wished it. I was quite pleased to sit by, with tfle 
Ting of their voices in my ear, doing my needle-w'ork— 1 always 
worked at something during these times— and thinking my own 
thoughts. But Mr. Edgar, who was unused to this, and perhaps 
did not think me quile so little a girl as my father and his friend 
did, was puzzled and disconcerted as 1 saw, by my exclusion from 
the stream ot talk. ] had a certain pleasure in showing him how 
much a matter ot course this was. 1 had never known a young man 
of my own rank and age before; hut 1 had a perverse delight in 
making myself appear something different to what 1 w’as. 1 turned 
half aside to the window, and hemmed as only demure little girls 
can hem, when grave talk is going on over their heads. But 1 saw 
very well how uncertainly he was regarding me— how puzzled he 
was that 1 should be left out of the couversalioii, and how he want- 
ed to be polite and amiable and draw me in. 

” How is the garden, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne at last, rising 


THE DAYS OT MY LIFE. 


51 ■ 

and coming toward me with a subject adapted to the capacit}'^ of 
the little girl, •* what! blossom already on that little apple-tree— 
what a sturdy little fellow it is! Now, Sonthcote, be honest— how 
many colds has Hester taken this winter in consequence of your 
trap for wet feet- that grass crotchet of yours?” 

“ Hester is a sensible girl in some respects,” said my father, ” she 
never takes cold— and your argument against my ^irassis antiquated 
and feeble. I will not plan my garden b}^ your advice, Osborne.” 

” jVly advice is always to be depended on,” said Mr, Osboine, 

” you have taken it in more important matters— and 1 think 1 know 
some matters still in which it would be very well you take it airain.’^ 

‘‘ That is my affair,” said my father coldly. Advice is a dan- 
gerous gift, Mr. Edgar,” he continued, with a somewhat sarcastio 
smile, ” every man v/ho has the faculty thinks himself infallible— 
and when you bring yourself ill fortune by following cood advice 
and friendly counsel, you are in a dangerous dilemma— to hide your 
failure or to lose your fiiend.” 

‘‘AVhat do you mean, Bouthcote?” cried Mr. Osborne, with a 
look of great surprise, and almost anxiety, in his face. 

” Nothing but my old opinion,” said my father, “ that every man 
must stand on his own ground, consult his own discretion, and build 
only upon his own merits. 1 have no faith in the kiudhess and 
compassion of friends; a kind act, done with the noblest good in- 
tentions, may make a man’s life miserable. No, no, justice, justice 
— wdiat you deserve, and no galling boon of pity— all is dishonest 
and unsatisfactory but this. ” 

Mr. Edgar and Mr, Osborne exchanged a slight rapid glance, and 
1 saw the color rise over the young man’s broad white brow; but 
1 was too much concerned and moved by what my father said to 
observe the others much. His friend even did not comprehend him 
— 1 alone knew what he reterred to, 1 alone could enter into his 
feelings, and understand how deep the iron had gone into his soul. 

After that Mr. Edgar was very silent, and listened to what was 
said, rather than took ])art in ii — so that when Mr. Osborne spoke 
of going away, the young man had subsided inlo a chair, as humble 
and nnconsidered as 1 was. He did not come to talk to me— he 
quite silent looking on— looking round at the pictures some- 
times, with a quiet sweep of his eyes, often looking at the speakers, 
and sometimes examining curiously my work table. 1 was sitting 
close by it, but he never looked at me, nor did I look at him. 

When they were going away, ray father, to my great surprise, 
bade him return. ‘‘ Come again, 1 shall be glad to see you,” said 
my father. 1 looked up almost with consternation, and Mr. Edgar, 
though he looked gratified, was surprised too, 1 could see— how- 
ever, he answered readily, and they went away. 

My father did not leave me immediately after they were gone; 
he walked up and down the room for awhile, pausing sometimes 
to look at the ivy leaves which waved and rustled as much as the. 
fine tendrils clasping tl.e wall would let them, in the fresh spring 
bieeze. My father seemed to have a certain sympathy with these 
clusters ol ivy— he always went to that window in |Keference to 
this one where 1 was seated, and which looked into the free and. 


THE DAYS OF Ml’ LIFE. 


■ 52 

luxuriant garden. After standing there tor some time, he suddenly 
turned and addressed me. 

“ Since you went out, Hester,” said my father, ” 1 have had an- 
other letter from your persevering cousin. He is at Cottiswoode, 
and would fain ‘ be friends ’ as he Ba 3 ’^s, thouj^h 1 will not permit 
him to be anything more. He is of age— he has entered upon his 
inheritance— -though 1 hear no one has seen him yet; and he does 
us the honor to desire to become acquainted with us, whom he calls 
his nearest relatives. What do you say?” 

‘‘You will not let lum come, papa,” cried I, “why should he 
come here? Why should he trouble us? We do not want him — 
you sureh’^ will tell him so.” 

‘‘ 1 am "glad you agree with me so thoroughly, Hester,” said my 
father. ” Osborne is a great advocate for this young man. He has 
been urging me strongly to receive him — and had you been of his 
opinion, Hester, 1 am not sure that 1 could have held out.” 

This was so singular a confession from my father, that 1 looked 
up in alarm and dismay. My opinion! what was that in compari- 
son with his will? 

He caught my look, and came toward me slowly, and with a 
step less firm than usual — then he drew a chair near me, and sat 
down. 

‘‘What I have to say, 1 must say in so many wmrds,” said my 
father. ‘‘My health is declining, Hester. 1 have exhausted my 
portion of life. 1 do not expect to live long.” 

‘‘ Papa!” 1 exclaimed, starting up in sudden terror — the shock 
was so great that 1 almost expected to see him sink down before me 
then. ‘‘ Papa! shall 1 send for the doctor? what shall I do? are 
you ill, father, are you ill? oh! 5 'ou do not mean that, 1 know.” 

‘‘ Sit dowm, my love— 1 am not ill now~ihere is nothing to be 
done,” said my father; ‘‘ only you .must listen calmly, Hester, and 
understand what 1 mean. You will not be destitute when 1 die, 
but j^ou will be unprotected. You will be a very lonely girl, 1 am 
afraid, ignorant of society, and unaccustomed to it; and 1 have no 
friend with whom 1 could place you. This was the argument 
which Mr. Osborne urged upon me, when he advised me to receive 
your cousin.” 

‘‘ Mr. Osborne was very cruel,” 1 exclaimed, half blinded by 
tears, and struggling with "the hysterical sobbing which rose in my 
throat. ‘‘ He knows nothing of me if he thinks — Oh! papa, pupal 
what would my life be to me if things w’ere as you say?” 

My father smiled upon me strangely. ‘‘ Hester, you will grieve 
for me, 1 know%” he said, in his quiet, unmoved tones; ‘‘ but I 
know also the course of time and nature; and in a little while, my 
love, your life will be as much to you as if 1 had never been.” 

1 could not utter the passionate contradiction which came to my 
lips. This composed and philosophic decision struck me dumb. 1 
would rather he had thought of his daughter and of her bitter 
mourning for him, than of the course of time and nature. But I 
sat quite silent before him, trembling a great deal, and trying to 
suppress my tears. This doctrine that grief is not forever— that the 
heavy affliction which it is agony unspeakable to look forw'ard to, 
will soften, and fade, and pass away, is a great shock to a young 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


hearl. 1 neither could cor would believe it. What was my after- 
life to me? But for once 1 exercised self-denial, and did not say 
what 1 thought. 

“ Shall 1 say any more, Hester? Can you hear me? or is this 
enough for a first warning?” said ray father. 

‘‘Oh! say all, papa, say all!” cried I. ‘‘1 can bear anything 
now — anything after this.” 

‘‘Then I may tell you, Hester, plainly, that ii would give me 
pleasure to see you ‘ settled,’ as people call it— to see you married 
and in your own house, before 1 am removed from mine. Circum- 
stances,” said my father, slowly, “have made me a haish judge 
of those romantic matters that belong to youth. 1 arn not sure that 
it would much delight me to suppose my daughter the heroine of a 
passionate love story. Will you consent to obey me, Hester, in an 
important matter, as readily as in the trilling ones of your child- 
hood? I have no proposal to make to you. 1 only desire your 
promise to set my mind at ease, and obey me when 1 have.” 

My face burned, my head throbbed, my heart leaped to my 
throat. Shame, pride, embarrassment, and the deeper, desolate fear 
of what was to happen to my father contended within me. 1 could 
not give an assent to this strange request. I could not say in so 
many words, that 1 gave up utterly to him the only veto a woman 
has upon the fashion of her life. Yet 1 could not refuse to do what, 
under these circumstances, he asked of me. 1 made him no answer. 
1 clasped my hands tightly over my brow, where the veins seemed 
full to bursting. For an instant, 1 felt with a shudder what a grand 
future that was, full of all joyaus possibilities, which 1 was called 
upon to surrender. 1 had thought to mjself often, that my pros- 
pects were neither bright nor encouraging; at this moment, 1 saw 
by a sudden light what a glorious uncertainty these prospects were, 
and how I clung to them. They were nothing, yet the promise of 
everything was in them; and my father asked me to give them up 
— to relinquish all that might be. It was a great trial; and 1 could 
not answer him a word. 

‘‘ You do not speak, Hester,” he said. ‘‘ Have you no reply then 
to my question?” 

‘‘ 1 want no protector, father,” 1 cried, almost with sullenness. 

If I must be left desolate, let. me be desolate. Do not mock me 
with false succor. I want no home. Let Alice take care of me. 1 
shall not want very much. Alice is fond of me, though I do not 
deserve it. Let her take care of me till 1 die.” 

1 was quite overcome. 1 fell into a violent outbreak of tears as 1 
spoke. 1 could command myself no longer. 1 was not made of 
iron to bear such a shock as this ” with composure,” as my father 
said. He rose and went away from me toward the other window 
where he stood looking out. Looking after him through ray tears, 
1 fancied that already^ 1 could see his step falter, and his head droop 
with growing weakness, 1 cried out: “ Oh, my father, my father!” 
with passionate distress. Perhaps he had never seen me w’eeping 
before, since 1 was a child. How, at least, he^left me to myself, as 
1 could remember him doing wdien 1 was a little girl, when I used 
to creep toward him very humbled and penitent after the fit was 
over, and sit down at his feet, and hold his hand, and after a long 


54 


THE DAYS or MY LIFE. 


time get his forgiveness. 1 could not do that now. 1 sat still, re- 
coveriag myself. 1 was no longer a child, and 1 had a stubborn: 
spirit. It wounded me with a dull pain that he should care so little 
for my distress. 

He did not return to me. He left the room, only saying, as he 
w’ent away, “You will tell me your decision, Hester, at another 
time;’’ and when the door closed upon him, 1 gave way to my tears, 
and let them flow. H he had only said a word of consolation to me 
—if he had only said it grieved him to see my grief! Bui he treat- 
ed it all so coldly. “ The course of time and nature!’’ — they were 
bitter iti their calmness, those dreadful words. 

1 wept long; but my tears did not help me. 1 did not feel it pos- 
sible to make this promise. To be given to somebody who would 
take care of me, as if 1 vras a favorite spaniel! 1 could not help the 
flush of indicnation and discontent which ca»ne over me at the 
thought. And then 1 began to think of my father’s real state ot 
health in this revulsion of feeling. He was mistaken— he must be 
mistaken. When 1 thought over the subject, 1 could find no traces 
of illness, no change upon him. He was just as he had always been. 
The longer I considered, the more 1 convinced myself that he was 
wrong; and somewhat relieved by this, 1 went to my room to bathe 
my eyes, and arrange my dress for dinner. How 1 watched my 
father while we dined! — how tremulously 1 noted every motion of 
his hand, every change of his position. His appetite was good — 
rather greater than usual; and he had more color in his face. 1 was 
sure he had been deceived. He spoke very little during that meal. 
For the first time, a sort ot antagonism had risen between my father 
and me. 1 could not canseut to what he asked of me; and, even if 
1 could have consented, I could not be the first to enter upon the 
subject again. 

And when 1 crept into my window-seat in the twilight, and 
watched, as 1 had watched so often, the lights gleaming in the win- 
dows of ihe college, 1 wondered now with a strange sense of neigh- 
borhood and friendship, which of them shone upon the thoughtful 
face and dark blue eyes of my new friend. 1 had made many a 
story in my own mind about the lights; and there was a favorite 
one, which was lighted sooner, and burned longer than any of the 
others, which 1 immediately fixed upon as his. 1 thought 1 could 
fancy him sitting within its steady glow, reading books w'hich 1 
knew nothing of, writing to friends unknown to me, thinking 
thoughts which 1 could not penetrate. As 1 sat still in the darkness, 
with my eyes upon that little light gleaming window, 1 found a 
strange society of fellowship in looking at it. If 1 had a brother 
now, like this student, how much happier would I be! As it was, 
the idea ot him was a relief to me. 1 forgot my^ own perplexity as 
1 wmndered and pondered about him. 

JVly father came into the drawing-room as I sat thus in the corner 
of the window-seat, leaning my cheek upon my hand, and looking 
out upon the little shining windows of Corpus; he was displeased 
that the lamp was not lighted, and rang the bell hurrie.lly; and it 
was only by some sudden movement 1 made that, with a* start, he 
discovered me. “ So, Hester, you are thinking,'’ he said in a low 
tone. 1 started up emboldened by my own thoughts. 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


55 

“Papa -papa! you were mistaken in wLat you said this morn- 
ing,” 1 exclaimed eagerly ; “you are not ill — bow firm your hand 
is! and I never saw your eyes so bright— you are mistaken. 1 am 
sure you are.” 

“ Do me justice, Hester,” said my father, in a voice which chilled 
me back out of all my hopes. “ 1 took care not to speak of this till 
1 was sure that 1 could not he mistaken. Trust me, 1 have sutti- 
-cient warrant for what 1 say.” 

His voice neither paused nor faltered— it was a stoic speaking of 
the mortal pain he despised; but it was hard and bitter, and so cold 
— oh ! so cold! if he had no pity for himself, he might have had pity 
for me. 

I held his hand, grasped it, and clung to it; but 1 did not cry 
again, for 1 felt that he would have been displeased, and it was a 
long time before his fingers closed upon mine with any return of 
my eager clasp. “You have been thinking, Hester, of what 1 said 
to you— what have you to tell me now?” 

“ 1 can not do it, papa,” 1 said, under my breath. 

He din not answer anything at first, nor loose my hand, nor put 
me away from him. Hut after a little while he spoke in his meas- 
ured low melodious tones. “ You think it better to risk your all 
upon a chance, do you, Hester? such a chancel- happiness never 
comes of it. It is always an unequal barter — but you prefer to risk 
that rather than to trust to me.” 

“1 want to risk nothing — 1 need nothing!” cried 1; “while 1 
have my father, 1 want no other; and do not" bid me think of such 
misery — do not, papa! Y’ou will live longer than 1 shall— oh! 1 
hope, 1 pray you will. Papa, do not urge me, 1 can not anticipate 
such a calamity!” 

“ This is merely weakness— is it compassion for my feelings?” 
said my father. “ 1 tell you this calamity, if it is a calamity, is 
coming rapidly, and you can not stay it. What will you do then?” 

“ 1 do not care what 1 do then,” 1 said, scarcely knowing what 
my words were, “ but 1 would rather you left me desolate than gave 
me to somebody to protect me. Oh, father! 1 cannot do it — I can 
not consent.” 

He said nothing more, but turned away from me, and went to 
his usual seat at the table, and to his book. 1 sat still in my corner, 
once more venturing to weep, and struck with a hundred compunc- 
tions; but I steadily resisted the strong impulse which came upon 
me to go to his feet and promise anything he wished. 1 could not 
do this— it would kill the very heart in me; and surely 1 was right. 


THE SEVENTH DAY. 

It was now nearly midsummer, the crown of the year. 1 was sit- 
ting in my own room by the window, idly musing, when Alice came 
in with some or my light muslin dresses to put them away. 1 had 
neither book nor work to veil my true occupation. 1 was leaning 
my liead upon both my hands, sometimes vacantly looking out at 
the window, sometimes closing my fingers over my eyes. I had 
both scenery and circumstances in my dream — 1 wanted nothing 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


56 

external to help me in the meditations with which Uiy mind had 
grown familiar now. 

1 w as not unaware of the entrance of Alice, but 1 only changed 
my position a little, and did not speak, hoping to be undisturbed. 1 
saw, with a little impatience, how careful she w^as about the dresses 
— how she smoothed down their folds, and arranged them elabo- 
rately, that they might not be crushed in the drawer; but she cer- 
tainly took more time than was necessary for this simple operation,, 
and though Alice had no clew to my thoughts, 1 scarcely liked, I 
can not tell why, to continue therh in her presence. But when the 
draw^ers were closed at last, Alice still did not go away — she came 
to the dressing-table, and began to arrange and disarrange the pretty 
toilet boxes which she kept in such good order, and to loop up and 
pull down the muslin draperies of the table and the mirror; at last 
she gathered courage and came close to me. 

“ May 1 speak to you. Miss Hester?” said Alice, but it was in a 
disturbed and nervmus tone. 

Now 1 was annoyed to have my own thoughts, which had a great 
charm for me at that time, interrupted and bioken. 1 looked up 
with a liule petulance—” MHiaL is it, xVlice?” 

She came still closer to where 1 was sitting, and her bright good 
face was troubled. “Miss Hester, my darling, 1 want to consult 
you,” said x\lice, and 1 thought I saw a tear trembling in her eye. 

‘ 1 am afraid your papa is ill. I am afraid lie is very bad. The 
doctor comes and goes, and he never lets you know; and 1 have said 
to myself this three months back: ‘ it’s cruel to keep it from her — 
the longer she is of knowing, the worse it will be.' And now, dear, 
I’ve taken heart and come myself to tell you. He’s very bad, Miss 
Hester, he has a deal of trouble; and it’ll come hard — hard upoii 
you.” 

1 felt that my face w\as quite blanched and white. What a con- 
trast was this to the tenor of my own thoughts! 1 shrunk within 
myself with a guilty consciousness, that while 1 had been running 
in these charmed ways, my father had suffered in secret, making no 
sign, 1 can not say 1 was startled — Alice’s words fell upon me 
with a dull heavy pang — 1 felt as if a blew which had long been, 
banging over me had fallen at last. 

“But Alice, Alice, 1 see no change in him,” cried I, for a mo- 
ment struggling against the trutn. 

” It you went to him as 1 sometimes go, you would see a change. 
Miss Hester,” said Alice; ” it is not your fault, dear. Well I know 
that— but the light in his eye, and the color in bis cheek— hush — 
that’s the hectic, darling— you’ve heard of that,” and Alice turned 
to me a glance of fright, and sunk her voice to a whisper, as it this 
was some deadly enem3Hiirking close at hand. 

And fear and faintness came upon me as she spoke. 1 rose and 
threw up the window for a moment's breath, and then 1 turned to 
Alice, and cried upon her shoulder, and asked her what 1 was to do^ 
—what 1 was to do? 

With her kind hand upon my head, and her kind voice blessing 
her ” dear child,” Alice soothed and calmed me — and the tears 
gave me some relief, and 1 gradually composed myself. ” Do you 
tbiuk he will let me nurse him, Alice? He told me he v.^as ill long 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


57 

ago, blit I peisuadcil myselt he was mistaken; and you think he is 
very bad— in great pain? oh! do you think he will let me nurse him. 
Alice?” 

” 1 can not tell, Miss Hester,” said Alice, ” but, dear, you must 
try; did he tell jmu he was ill?— and 1 was doing him wrong, think- 
ing he was loo proud to let his own child see him in weakness; oh, 
■we’re hard judges, every one of us. When was it, dear?” 

” In spring, a long time ago; and we were not quite friends 
then,” said I, ” 1 thought he was cruel; he spoke to me about — 
about— I mean he told me that 1 must soon be left alone, and that 
he wanted to find some one to take care of me. 1 can not tell you 
about it, Alice; and 1 refused — L said no to m 3 ' father; and we have 
never been very good friends since then.” 

“ Do you mean that your papa wanted you to marry. Miss Hes- 
ter?” asked Alice. 

” 1 suppose so— yes!” 1 said, turning my head— she was looking 
full at me, and looking very anxiously— she had always been great- 
ly privileged. 1 felt 1 might have questioned, had she caught the 
expression of my eye. 

” And did he say who? Was it M ? Was it your cousin?” 

said Alice. 

‘‘ No, it was not my cousin; but why do you speak of that? Alice, 
let me go to my father,” said 1 . 

‘‘ He does not want you now, darling,” said Alice, detaining me. 
” Dear Miss Hester, don’t you think it wrong of me — 3 'ou’re my 
own child. 1 took you out of your mother’s arms. Speak to me 
just one word. Is there any one, darling, any one? Miss Hester, 
you’ll not be angry with me?” 

” Then do not ask me such questions, Alice.” 1 said, in great 
shame and confusion, with a burning flush upon my cheek, ” does 
it become us to speak of things like this, when my father is so ill? 
— wh}’’ do you say he does not want me now? he may v\umt me this 
very moment; let me go.” 

” Dear, he’s sleeping,” said Alice, ” he has been very ill, and now 
he's at rest and eas}*, and lying down to refresh himself — you can’t 
go now. Miss Hester, for it only wmuld disturb him, poor gentleman 
— won’t you stay, dear, and say a word to me?” 

” 1 have nothing to say to 5 ’’ou, Alice,” said 1, half crying with 
vexation and shame and embarrassment, ” why do you question me 
so? 1 have done nothing wrong— you ought rather to tell me how 
my father is, if you will not let me go and see.” 

‘‘The pain is here,” said Alice, putting her hand to her side, 
‘‘ here, at his heart. I know what trouble at the heart is. Miss Hes- 
ter, and your papa has knowm it many a day, but it isn’t grief or 
sorrow now, but sickness, and if the one has brought the othd, I 
can not tell. It comes on in fits and spasms, and is very bad for a 
time, and then it goes off again, and he is as well to look at as ever 
he was. But every time it comes he’s weaker, and it’s wearing out 
his strength day by day. Yes, dear, it’s cruel to say it, but it’s 
true.” 

‘‘ And are you with him wdien he is ill, Alice^” said 1 anxiously. 
‘‘ He rings his bell when he feels it coming,” said Alice, ” though 
I know he has many a hard hour all by himself; and anxiety on hia 


58 


THE HAYS OF MY LIFE. 


mind is very bad for him. dear.” she continued, looking at me wist- 
fully, “ and he is troubled in his spirit about leaving you. If you 
can give in to him, Miss Hester, dear— if it’s not against your heart 
— if you’re fancj’^-free, and think no more of one than of another — 
oh! darling, yield to him anything you can. He’s a snfiering man, 
and he’s your father, and pride is the sin of the house; every one 
has it, less or more; and theie are only two of you in the world— 
and you are his only child!” 

Alice ran breathlessly through this string of arguments, wdiile 1 
listened with a disturbed and a rebellious heart. No, it my father 
was slowly dying — it he would soon be beyond the reach of all 
obedience and duty— I would not deny him anything— not even this 
It was hard, unspeakably hard, to think of it. 1 could not see why 
he should ask such a bitter sacrifice from me. i knew of no self- 
sacrifice in his history — why should he think it was easy in mine! 

Alice left me like a skillful general, when she had made this 
urgent appeal, and went away down-stairs, saying she wmuld call 
me when rry father awohe. 1 remained at my window, where 1 
had been dreaming before— but a harsh interruption had come to- 
my dreams; — the sunshine without streamed downasfull and bright 
as ever over the trees and fiowers, and fresh inclosing greensward of 
our pretty garden; half an hour of time had come and gone, but it 
might have been half a j'ear for the change it made in me. Alice 
had come to my Bower of Bliss, like Sir Guyon, and driven me tortk 
from among the flowers and odors of the enchanted land. My heart 
became very heavy, 1 could not tell her why. 1 resolved upon mak- 
ing my submission to my lather, if 1 had any opportunity, and tell- 
ing him to do wdiat he would with me. This was not a willing or 
tender submission, but a forced and reluctant one; and I did not try 
to conceal from myself that 1 felt it very hard, though when 1 
thought again of his recent suffering and of the fantastic paradise 
of dreams in which 1 was wandering, while he wrestled with his 
mortal enemy, 1 felt suddenly humiliated and subdued. My father? 
my father! 1 had belonged to him all my life, I had no right to 
any love but his; 1 had lived at case in his care, and trusted to him 
with the perfect confidence of a child. And now, when it w^as at 
last of importance that 1 should trust him, wms this the time to fol- 
low my own fancies and leave him to suffer alone? 

At that moment Alice called me, and I immediately went down- 
stairs; 1 w^enl with a tremulous and uncertain step, and an oppressed 
heart— to make any sacrifice he wished or asked— to do anything he 
desired me. When 1 entered the libr-ary, my father looked up 
fr'om his book wiih a momentary glance of surprise arid inquiry; 
and w'ith a heart beating so loud and so uneasily as mine, it w-as 
hard to look unembarrassed and natural. 1 said breathlessly: 
” May 1 sit beside you, papa? 1 want to read a Jiltlc,” hut 1 did 
not daro to look at him as 1 spoke. The calm every-day tone of his 
voice struck very strangely upon my excited ear as he ausw’eied me: 
” Surely, llesteiV’ he said, with a slight quiet astonishment at the 
unnecessary question. He was perfectly unexcited — 1 could see 
neither care, nor anxiety, nor suftering in his calm and equable 
looks; and he did not perceive nor suspect the tumult and fever in 
my mind. Prepared as 1 was to yield to him with reluctance, and 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


59 


a feeling of hardship, 1 felt a. shock of almost disappointment when 
1 found that nothing was to be asked of me, 1 sunk into the nearest 
chair and took up the first book 1 could find to cover my trembling 
and confusion. The stillness of the room overpowered me— 1 could 
hear njy heart beating in the silence — and as my eye w^audered over 
all these orderly and ordinary airaiigements, and to the calm bright 
sunshine out of doors, and the shadow of the trees softly weaving 
across the window, 1 was calmed into quieter expectancy arid clearer 
vision. 31y father sat in his usual place at his usual studies, wu’th 
the summer daylight full upon his face, and everything about him 
arranged with scrupulous propriety and care; if any of his habitual 
accessories had been disturbed — if he had occupied another seat, or 
sat in a different attitude, or if 1 could have detected the slightest 
sign of faltering or w’eakness in his manner, 1 should not have felt 
so strongly my sudden descent from the heights of terror, anxiety, 
and expectation, to the every-day level of repose and comfort; but 
there w^as no change in his stately person or dress, no perceptible 
difference in his appearance. lie w^as not old— at tliis present mo- 
ment he looked like a man in his primo. handsome, haughty, re- 
served, and fastidious. As 1 observed him under the shadow of my 
book, 1 felt like a spy watching to detect incipient weakness— was 
1 disappointed that he tlid not looh ill? 'SY as this the man who half 
an hour ago was sleeping the Bleep of exhaustion after a deadly 
struggle with his malady? 1 could not believe myself, or Alice; 
she was mistaken — for it was imposslole to reconcile what she told 
me with wdiat 1 saw. 

But the stillness of the room and his steady occupation influenced 
me like a spell— i did not go away — and when a slight movement 
he made startled me into a momentaiy fear that he might perceive I 
was watching him, 1 began to read in earnest the book wdiich, ail 
th’s time, 1 had been holding in my hands. It had been lying on 
the top of a pile of oihers, and w'as quite a new book, not entirely 
cut up, a very unusual thing here. My eye had already traveled 
vacantly, two or three times, to the end of the page, without know- 
ing a syllable of the lines which 1 went over mechanically— but now 
1 caught the name of the book, and it strangely awed and startled 
me. 1 could almost have cast it from me like a horrible suggestion 
when 1 saw that title. It was a medical treatise, and its subject was 

Sudden Death;” — the words were like a revelation to me— this 
was why he sat so composed and stately, ready to meet the last 
enemy like a brave man; this was why he suffered no trace of agita- 
tion or of languor to come into this solemn room which at any mo- 
ment, as my excited fancy wlispcred, might become the chamber 
of death. 1 could almost fancy 1 saw the shadow}’^ sword suspended 
over my father’s h®ad, and in another instant it might fall. 

My terror now, for himself and for him only, was as insane and 
wild as it seemed visionary and baseless; for 1 had seen nothing as 
yet to point to him as one of the probable victims of this sudden 
conclusion. But the very name of the book convinced me of what 
he thought himself. I went on reading it, scarcely sensible now 
how my hands trembled, nor how' easily he would find me out, if he 
happened to glance at me. Yes! here was abundant confirmation 
of my fears. " 1 read with a breathless and overwhelming interest 


60 


THE HAYS OF MY LIFE. 


cases and symptoms — to my alarmed fancy, every one seemed to 
bear some likeness to wliat 1 knew of his; I never read a drama or 
a tale with such profoond excitement as 1 read this scientific treatise 
■ — there seemed to be life and deatli in its pages — the authoritative 
mandate which should forbid hope or silence fear. 

“ Ilesler!” said my father. 1 started violently and looked up at 
him; 1 felt the heat and flush of my intense occupation upon my 
cheek, and 1 almost expected to see him faint or tall as 1 sprung 
toward him. He held up his hand half impatient, halt alarmed, at 
my vehemence. “What ave you reading? what has excited you,. 
Hester?” he said. 

1 retired very rapidly and quietly to my chair, and put my book 
away with nervous haste. “ Nothing, papa,” I said, bending my 
head to escape his eye. 

“ Nothing! that is a child’s answer,” said ray lather, and 1 felt 
that he smiled; “ 1 have been watching you these five mintues, Hes- 
ter, and 1 know that ‘ nothing ' could not make you so earnest. 
What is it you have been r<’ading?— tell me.” 

“ It is only a book — a new book ” 1 said slowly. 

“1 thought so— almost the only new book in my library, is it 
not?” said my father in a singular tone; “ what do you think of it, 
Hester?” 

1 lifted my hands in entreaty — 1 could not bear to hear him sneak- 
ing thus. 

“ It is true,” he said quietly, “ and you perceive it does not d-is- 
turb me— this is what you must make up j-our mind to, Hester. It 
will be a trial for 3 "ou— but not a prolonged and tedious one— and 
you must hold yourself prepared for it as 1 do.” 

“ But father — father! you are not ill. You are not so ill — 1 can 
not believe it,” 1 cried, scarcely knowing what 1 said. 

“ It will prove itself by and by,” he answered calmly, and re- 
turned to his book as if we had ^een speaking of some indiflerent 
matter. 1 could not think it so coolly — 1 cried; “ Papa, listen to 
me! 1 will do anything, everything you want— do you hear me, 
papa?” 

He looked up at me for a moment— was it suspicion? he certainly 
seemed to have forgotten that he had ever asked anything of me 
which 1 had refused. 

“ 1 require nothing, Hester,” he said, “ nothing, my love— and I 
perfectly believe in your willingness to serve me. Lay down the 
booK — it is not for you— and go out and refresh yourself. 1 am 
pleased that j-mu know what may come, but 1 shall not be pleased 
if you brood upon it. Now leave me, Hester— but come arrain when 
you will, and 1 will never exclude you. Pshaw% child! it is the 
common lot. What do you tremble for? what is it you want to 
do?” 

“ Is there nothing you wish, papa— nothing 1 could do to please 
you?” 1 said, under my breath. I could not allude more plainly to 
the former question between us. 

“ It is tirr.e enough to ask such questions,” he said, with a mo- 
mentary jealousy of my intention, “ 1 am not dying yet.” 

Pie did not understand me— he had forgotten! I hurried out, 
grieved, overwhelmed, yet in spite of myself relieved on this one 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


61 

point. 1 lliouglil myself Hie meanest wretch in the world, to be 
p-ble to derive satisfaction from it at such a moment. Yet 1 was sot 
1 felt a thrill of delight that 1 was tree, in (he midst of my terror 
and dismay at the doom which hung over our house. 1 tried to con- 
ceal it from myself, but 1 could not. 1 was fiee to mourn for my 
dear father forever, and admit no human consolation. 1 was not 
bound under a promise to commit myself to somebody’s hands to 
be taken care of. 1 was afflicted, but at liberty. 

Alice waited ea^^erly to speak to me when 1 came from the library,, 
but 1 only could speak two or three words to her, and then hastened 
out, to relieve the oppression of my spiiitit 1 could. It was a 
dreadful thought to carry wdth me and ponder upon— and when I 
was walking fast along a lonely road, half a mile out of Cambridge, 
it suddenly occurred to me what danger there was m leaving home,, 
even for an hour. Before 1 returned, the blow might fall— it mi^ht 
be falling oven now. 1 turned at once and went hastily homeward,, 
my heart sick with anxiety and terror. When 1 had nearly reached 
the house, 1 met l\Ir. Osboine; though 1 knew he would detain me, 
1 was yet very anxious to speak to him, for perhaps he would give 
me some liope. He was speaking to some one, but he saw that 1 
waited for him, and immediately left his former companion and 
came to me. “ No other young lady in the world would do me so 
much lionor,” said Mr. Osborne, in the gay, good humored tone 
which was usual to him, but which jnrred so much upon my feel- 
ings. “Oh! Hester, what’s this? Why do .you look so much ex- 
cited? Have you something important to teil me? 1 have almost 
expected it, do you knotv.’’ 

1 ^Yas very ’sorry, but 1 could riot help the burning heat which 
came to my face; and 1 could not lift my eyes for the moment to 
meet his saucy eyes which seemed to read my thoughts. What had 
I to do with such thoughts? 1 cast them from me with bitter self- 
indignation, and looked up at him at last with a face so grave that 
he smiled on me no more. 

“I want to speak to you about papa, Mr. Osborne,” 1 said.. 
“ AVill you tell me? — you must know. He thinks he is very ill. He 
thinks — oh! tell me if you think he is so had as that?” 

For an instant his face grew very serious. “ 1 am not qualified 
to give an opinion,” he said first; and then regaining his iisuul look 
with an effort, he continued. “He is not well, Hester; but quite 
well and very ill are a long way from each other. 1 do not think 
he is very bad — 1 do not, indeed. 1 see no need for your alarming; 
yourself,” 

“But he speaks of danger and of sudden ” — 1 could not say the 
fatal word. “Has he any foundation for it; do you think he is. 
right, Mr. Osborne?” 1 continued with a shudder. 

“ 1 do not think he is right, Hester. 1 think that you ought not 
to be frightened with such a ghastly doubt as this,” said Mr. Os- 
borne, seriously, “your father has fancies, as every man in weak 
health has; but 1 know enough of his illness, 1 think — i am almost 
sure — to give you confidence on this point. If anytniug sad should, 
occur, it will not be without long and abundant warning— a sudden 
or immediate blow is not to be feared. 1 assure you 1 am right, 
Hester— you may trust me. ” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


62 

1 did trust to him with gratitude, and a feeling of relief. lie 
walked home with me, moderating my pace, and leading my mind 
to ordinary subjects. He was very kind to me. He said notliing 
to embarrass or distress; but calmed my excitement, and made me 
leel a real confidence in him. When we got home, nothing had hap- 
pened. The quiet house was as quiet and undisturbed as ever it 
had been. Mr. Osborne went to the library; and I went upstairs to 
the window-seat in the drawing-room. And 1 do not venture to say 
that 1 did not go back to my dreams. 


THE EIGHTH DAY. 

Alice had sent me out to walk at sunset— she said 1 was break- 
ing her heart with my white thin face, and woful looks. 1 had 
spent all that afternoon in the aarden watching my lather at his 
window. 1 could do little else but watch hm, and listen, and. wait 
near the library; the constant strain of anxiety almost wore me out, 
yet 1 had a fond persuasion at the bottom of my heart that my fears 
were groundless, and 1 think 1 almost kept up my anxiety on pur- 
pose as a sort of veil tor this hope. 8ince 1 had been so much afraid 
lor him, he seemed to have grown better every day— he had begun 
to take his walks again, and had never had another attack since the 
time Alice warned me how ill he was. 

1 obeyed her now tacitly and went out; though it was a beautiful 
night, tew people were walking where 1 went to walk, by the river- 
side, where the last rays ot the sun were shining gloriously through 
the half-transparent leaves ot the lime-trees. The tender slanting 
golden light was very sweet to see, as it touched upon the green 
surface of the Cam at some single ripple or eddy, and left all beside 
in the deep shadow ot the coming twilight. In those great trees 
overhead, the wind was sighing with a gentle rustle, shaking the 
leaves against each other, swaying the sunny branches into the 
shade, and thrusting now and then a dark parcel of leaves into the 
sunshine, where they suddenly became illuminated, and showed you 
all ttie life in their delicate veins, quivering against the light. On 
■one bank ot the river was a trim slope ot grass descending to the 
water, and on the other, withdrawn over broad lawns ot greensward, 
with sliadows ot trees lying on the grass, and the light falling on it 
aslant and tardily, stood the stately college buildings, noble and calm 
in the sweet leisure ot tlie evening rest. 1 came here because 1 saw it 
solitary; no one interrupted me as I waudered along the broad sandy 
footpath; no one ilisturbed my thoughts as 1 pursued my dream. 
Sometimes a bird fluttered through the leaves from one branch to 
another, going home; and there was a low sweet twittering of wel- 
come Irom the tiny household deep in the heart of the green lime, 
a forest all bedevved and shining with the last smiles of the sun; 
but 1 heard no other sound except my own footsteps, at which 1 
someiimes could almost have blushed and stepped aside, afrfud ot 
:sonK* spectator of my maiden meditations, or some passer-by wlio 
might iiuess at the secret of my dream. 

When 1 first saw him coming on the saire solitary road, no one 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


ca 

here but he and I, my first impulse was to turn back and escape. 1 
trembled and blushed, and shrunk with conscious conv^iction, 
believing he could read all my thoughts whenever he met my eyes. 
Then 1 paused and stumbled, and telt how ashamed and hesitating 
my pace had become, and wondered what he would think was the 
occasion of this nervous foolishness. But 1 do not think he took 
time to observe, for he was hastening toward me, witli an eager 
haste which only made me shrink the more. 1 could not turn back, 

1 could not go steadily onward; 1 almost thought all nature which 
had made this scene so beautiful, and all Cambridge who had left 
it to us, were in a conspiracy against me. On came his light active 
figure, pushing through the trees — and 1 with my faltering steps 
advanced slowly, going toward him, because 1 could not help my- 
seH. When we met at last, he turned and went on With me; 1 was 
not able to object to this, and even he did not say anything about 
it, but merely turned by my side, subdued his hasty pace to my slow 
one, and accompanied me, as though it had been quite a matter of 
course. 1 do not think we said much to each other. 1 do not rec- 
ollect anything that passed between us — 1 remember only the twit- 
tering of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, the light stealing off the 
dew}' greensward and the darkening river— all those soft sweet dis- 
tant sounds that belong to a summer’s night were ringing with a 
subdued and musical echo in the air around us; our own steps upon 
the path — the beating of our own hearts— these, and not words from 
each other, were what we listened to. 

When he suddenly seemed to rouse himself, and began to speak 
— suddenly, in a moment, when I was quite unprepared for it. 1 
can not tell how 1 felt while I listened. We went on mechanicall3^ 

1 am sure, not knowing nor caring whither we went. He was 
speaking to me, pleading with me, entreating me; and 1 listened 
with a Viigue, secret delight, halt pain, halt pleasure. When his- 
voice stopped at last, 1 became aware how 1 was hanging upon it — 
what a great shock and disappointment it was that it should cease. 
But still, in my trance of embariassment, in my agitation and per- 
plexity*, it never occurred to me that it was 1 who jmist speak now 
— that it w^as 1 who had to decide and conclude upon this strange 
eventful question, and that with still greater excitement than that 
with which 1 had listened to him, he was waiting to hear me. 

1 did not speak— 1 went slowly on wdth the echo of his words 
ringing into my heart — then came his voice again, agitated and 
breathless, “ Hester, have you nothing to say to me?” 

1 can not tell why, at this moment, our first conversation together, 
when he came to our house with Mr. Osborne, returned to my mem- 
ory, 1 did not turn toward him nor lift my eyes, but 1 asked in a 
tone as low and hurried as his own, ” Almost the first lime you ever ~ 
spoke to me, you were going to call me Hester— why was that?” 

He did not answer immediately. ‘‘Because your name became 
the sweetest sound in the world to me, the first time I heard it,” he 
said after a moment’s pause, 1 believed him— 1 was not vain of it 
— it seemed to be a merit in him to think so, but no merit in me. 

‘‘Not a word — noi a word — must 1 go away then — will you an- 
swer me nothing?” he said at last, after another interval, with other 
wild words of tenderness, such as had never been said to me be- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


-64 

foie, and such ns no woman can tell again. 1 was roused by his 
outcry — 1 turned for an instant to look at him — and then 1 suddenly 
felt iiiy face l)urn and my brow throb, and then— it seemed he was 
satisfied, and wanted no more words from me. 

And we wandered on together, out from the shadows of the trees, 
where the sun came gleaniing and glistening upon us like a friend 
who liad found us out. 1 think there never was such a night of 
content and satisfaction and peace; there was the calm of nighi and 
the flush of hope lor another day upon the heavens; and the sweet 
light blessed the earth, and the earth lay still under it in a great joy, 
too deep to be expressed, t was leaning with my hand upon his 
arm — 1 was leaning my heart upon him, so that 1 could have w’ept 
for the delight of this sweet ease and rest. Yes! it w^as the love of 
the poets that had overtaken us, and put our hands together. As 
he clasped both his hands over oue of mine, he said it was forever 
and forever — forever and forever, and lingered on the words. 1 said 
nothing — but the clasp of his hands holding me stiired the very 
depths in my lieait. 1 was alone no longer; 1 wanted to tell him 
everything — my secret thoughts, my fears— all that had ever hap- 
pened to me. I could not tell him my fancies about himself, though 
1 listened so eagerly to all he said of me; but all my life came 
brightening up before nie — 1 wa? eager to show it all to him — I 
was jealous of having anything in which he had no share. 

We went, up and down— up and down— the same bit of enchanted 
ground— and it was only when 1 felt a chill breath of air, and slight- 
ly shivered at if, and when he put up my shawl upon my shoulders, 
and drew it round me so anxiously aud tenderly, that 1 glanced up 
at the sky to escape his eyes which were gazing full upon me, aud 
saw that it was getting quite dark, and must be late. “ Is it late?" 
1 said, starting suddenly at the thought of my father, “ they will 
wonder where I am— oh! 1 must go home.” 

‘‘ Time has not been lo-nigbt,” he said, wilh the smile upon his 
lip quivering as it the tears were in his eyes as well as in mine. 
” Once more, Hester, let me look at this glorious bit of road that has 
brought me fortune. Here— it was just here; winter should never 
come to this spot— and there is a faint, timid footstep in the sand. 
My sovereign lady was afraid of me! If you had but known what 
a poor coward 1 was, how I trembled for those words which would 
not come, and haw you held my fate in your hand, and played with 
it. Love is quite Dad enough -but love and fear! how is a single 
man to stand against themo” 

“ 1 do not think you looked very much afraid,” said 1. 

” Y^ou can not tell — you never vouchsafed me a glance,” said 
Harry, “ and fear is the very soul of daring— when a man will 
rather hear the worst tlian hear nothing, Hester, his courage is not 
very cool, 1 can tell you. And how unmerciful you were!” 

” Hush! hush! I am sure it is very late,” said 1, ” 1 must go 
home.” 

“ But not without me, Hester,” said my companion. 

1 did not want him to leave me certainly, but 1 was a little 
startled. My fathei! what would he say? now wmuld he receive 
this unexpected accomplishment ot his desires? The idea agitated 
«and excited me. 1 suddenly felt as if this meeting ot oiiis had been 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


C5 


clandestine and underhand. 1 did not know what 1 could saj’’ to 
my father, and xAlice would be uneasy about myself already, 

“ You would not prolong my suspense, Hester?” said Harry, as 
we slowly took the way home, “ you Rnow 1 can not rest till i have 
spoken to your father— have I a rival then — do you see difticulties? 
or is it that you would rather tell him with your own sweet lips what 
you have never yet told me?” 

‘‘ Ho — no — 1 do not want to speak to him first,” said 1, hurried- 
ly, ” but he is not w'eil —he is not strong — agitation hurts liim; yet, 
perhaps this would not agitate him,” 1 continued, with involuntary 
sadness — ” perhaps, indeed, it is better he should know,” 

“ 1 think it will not agitate him. 1 think, perhaps, he will not 
be much surprised, except, indeed, that 1 should have won what 1 
have long aimed at,” said Henry. “ 1 met his eye the last time 1 
saw him, Hester !” 

” And what then?” 1 asked eagerly. 

“ Hothing much, except that 1 think he knew the sad condition 1 
was in,” siiid Harry, with a smile, ‘‘and remembered somebody 
who wms the light of his eyes in his own youth— for 1 think he did 
not look unkindly on me.” 

‘‘ But he never could suspect anything,” said 1. 

‘‘ Did you never suspect anything, you hard heart?” he said; 
“* you would not shake hands with me. You would not look at me. 
You never w'ould come frankly out into the garden where a poor 
fellow^ could see you. Do you mean to tell me now that you were 
not afraid of me. and did not feel that 1 was your fate?” 

” Hush! hush!” 1 repeated again. ” And Mr. Osborne and Alice 
— you do not mean that everybody knew?” 

” You must not be angry with me, if 1 confess that Mr. Osborne 
was in my confidence,” said Harry, looking into my face, with some 
alarm, as i thought. ” I was shy of whisper iug my name of names 
to any other man; but 1 betrayed myself once by sa 5 iug Hester to 
your old friend. Hester- Hester! Homer never knew the sweet 
sound of these two syllables, yet they used to glide in upon his 
page, and no more intelligence was left in it. Ab! yon do not 
know what you have to answer tor. And Alice! Alice loves you loo 
M'ell not to suspect everybody who approaches you, IJester. She 
has been very curious about me for a long time. 1 think she ap- 
pronves of me now at last,” 

” It is very strange,” 1 said with a little pique and offended dig- 
nity, “ everybody seems to have been aware except—” 

I paused, being too sincere to imply what was not true. Had not 
1 been aware? or what were all my dreams about for many a day? 

‘‘ Except fhe person most concerned? 1 suppose it is always so,” 
said Harry. ‘‘ But do not blame me for that. It my queen was not 
aware of her devoted servant’s homage— il was no fault of mine. 
Ah! Hester! so many jealous glances 1 have given to this closed 
door.” 

For we had reached home; aud with a beating heart, 1 opened 
the door, and entered before him. It was so dark here in the close, 
that I could only hear, and could not see, the ivy rustling on the 
wall; and the air was chill though it was August: and 1 trembled 
with a nervous shiver. He held me back for a moment as 1 was 
3 


G6 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


about to hasten in. “Hester, give me your hand, give me your 
promise,” he said, in a low, passionate tone. “ Your father may 
not be content with me; but 5’^ou— j^ou will not cast me off? You 
will give me time to win him to my side? Say something to me,. 
Hester — say a kind word to me!” 

1 could see, even in the darkness, how he changed color; and 1 
felt his hands tremble. 1 gave him both mine very quietly : and 1 
said: “ He will consent.” Then we parted. 1 hurried in, and 
called Alice to show Harry to the drawing-room where my father 
was; and, without pausing to meet her surprised and inquiring” 
look, I ran upstairs, and shut myself into my own room. 1 wanted 
to be alone. It was not real till 1 could look at it by myself, and 
see what it was. 

Yes! there was the dim garden underneath, with the trees rising 
up solemnly in the pale summer night, and all the color and the 
light gone out of this flowery little world. There were the lights 
in the little gleaming windows of Corpus like so many old friends 
smiling at me. 1 had come home to my own familiar room; but 1 
was not the same Hester Southcote, who had lived all her life in this 
environment. In my heart, 1 brought another with me into my 
girlish bower. The idea of him possessed all my thoughts — his 
words came rushing back — 1 think almost every one of them — into 
my ears. 1 dropped upon my seat with the shawl he had placed 
there still upon me, without removing my bonnet or doing any- 
thing. 1 sat down and began to live it over again, all this magical 
night. It stood in my memory like a picture, so stranire. so beauti- 
ful, so true! could it be true? Did he think me the first, above all 
othersY and all these words w'hich sent the blood tingling to the very 
fingers he had clasped, had he really spoken them, and 1 listened? 
all this wonderful time had been since 1 left the little dark room, 
where I had come now again to look at my altered fate. All the 
years before were nothing to this single night. 

And then 1 remembered where he was, and how occupied now. 
He w’as telling my father — asking my father to give up his only 
child. 

IVly father was ill— in danger of his life— and was 1 willing to 
leave him alone? but then the proud thought returned to me — not to 
leave him alone — to add to him a belter companion than 1, a friend, 
a son, a man of nature as lofty as himself; but 1 was not wu’lling to 
enter into details, and as 1 thought upon the interview going ori so 
near me, 1 grew nervous once more. Then 1 heard a step sotlly ap- 
proaching mv door. Then a light gleamed underneath, and 1 w-ent 
to open it with a great tremor. It was Alice, and she said my lather 
had sent for me to come to him now. 

Alice did not ask me why 1 sat in the dark with my bonnet on: 
instead of that she helped me to take oft my walking-dress, and 
kept her eyes from my face, in her kinrluess-^for she must have 
seen how the color went and came, how 1 trembled, and how much 
agitated 1 was. She brushed back my hair with her own kind 
hands, and took a rose out of a vase on the table, and fastened it in 
my dress. 

1 bad been so full ot my own thoughts that 1 had not observed 
these roses, but I knew at once when she did this. They were 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


G7 

from my own tree at Cottisw'oode. I did not ask Alice liow she got 
them, yet 1 had pleasure in the tlower. It reminded me of my 
mother — my mother — if 1 but had a mother now! 

“ They are waiting for you, Miss Hester,” said Alice; they? how 
strange the combination was— yet 1 lingered still. 1 could n(A meet 
them both together. 1 could have borne to hear my father discuss 
it afterward; Ixit to look at each of them in the othei’s presence, 
w'as more than 1 thought I could endure. 1 went away slowly — 
Alice lingering over me, holding the light to show me the way 1 
knew so well, and following me with her loving ways. My Alice, 
who had nobody but me! I turned round to her suddenly, for a 
moment, and leaned upon her breast, and sought her kiss upon my 
cheek— then 1 went away comforted. It was all the mother-comfort 
1 had ever known. 

When my hand touched the drawing-room door, it was suddenly 
thrown open, and there he stood to receive me, with such joy and 
eagerness that 1 shrunk back in terror; for my father— my father 
was not there. 

‘‘We are alone,” said Harry, ” your father would not embarrass 
you, Hester — and he gives his consent under the most delightful of 
all conditions. Do jmu think me crazy? indeed, 1 will not answ^er 
for myself; for you belong to me, Hester, you are lawfully made 
over — my wife!” 

1 was almost frightened by his vehemence; and though 1 had 
feared it so much, I was sorry now that my father did not stay. 
“ J)id it trouble him? was he disturbed? what did he say?” 1 asked 
eagerly. 

‘‘1 am not to tell you what he said — he will tell you himself,” 
said Harry, ” but the’condition — have you no curiosity to hear what 
this condition is?” 

“ Ko,” 1 said; ‘‘it seems to please you. 1 am glad my father 
cared to make conditions; and you are sure he was not angry? 
What did he say?” 

“ 1 will tell you what 1 said,” was all the answer 1 got; ‘‘ but all 
the rest you are to hear from himself. How, Hester,” he continued, 
pleadingly, holding my hands and looking into my face, ‘‘ don’t be 
vexed at the condition. 1 don’t expect you are to like it as well as 
1 do; but }’ou wu’ll consent, will you not? You can trust yourself 
to me as w’^ell as it 5mu knew me another year? Hester! don't turn 
41 way from me. There is your father coming; and I promieed to 
leave you when 1 heard him. It is very hard leaving you; but 1 
suppose 1 must not break my word to him. 1 am to come to-mor- 
row. You will say good- night to me, surely — good night to your 
poor slave, princess— good-night!” 

My father was just at the door, when at last he left me. There 
was a brief leave-taking between them; and then 1 heard his rapid 
step descending the stair, and my father entered the room. 1 hud 
gone to my usual seat at the table, and scarcely ventured to look up 
as he came in. 1 thought he hesitated for a moment, as he stood at 
the door looking in upon me. Perhaps he thought of giving me a 
kinder greeting; but, if he did, he conquered the impulse, and came 
quietly to his chair opposite me, and, without saying a word, 
look his place there, and closed the book which had been lying 


68 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


open upon the table. Then he spoke. My hearl beat so loud and 
wild, that it almost took away my breath. He was my father— my 
father! and I wanted to throw myself at his feet, and pour out all 
my heart to him. 1 wanted to say that 1 never desired to leave him 
—never! and that 1 would rather even give up my own liappiness 
than forsake him now. 

He gave me no opportunity; he spoke in that grave, calm tone of 
self-possessed and self-commanded quietness, which chilled me to 
the heart. “ Hester!” he said, ” 1 have been listening to a young 
man’s love-tale. He is very fervid, and as sincere as most youths 
are, 1 have no doubt. He says he has thought of nothing but how 
to win you, since we first admitted him here; and he says that you 
have promised him your hand, if he can gain my consent. 1 have 
no doubt you recollect, Hester, the last conversation we had on this 
subject, i^ou have chosen for yourself what you would not per- 
mit me to choose for you, and 1 hope your choice will be a happy 
one. 1 have given my consent to it. What he says of his means 
seems satfsfactory ; and 1 w^aive the question of family, in which his 
pretensions, 1 presume, are much inferior to your own. But 1 ear- 
nestly desire that you should have a proper protector, Hester; and 1 
give my consent to your marriage, on condition — ” ho paused, and 
1 glanced up at him, 1 know not with what dismayed and appre- 
hensive glance; for his solemn lone struck me with terror: “on 
condition,” he continued, with a smile—” do not fear — it is noth- 
ing ver}^ terrible — on condition that your marriage takes place 
within Three weeks from this time.” 

” Papa!” 

1 started to my feet, no longer shrinking and embarrassed. Oh! 
it was cruel— cruel! To seize the first and swiftest opportunity to 
thrust me trom him, wdiile he was ill, perhaps dying, and when he- 
knew how great m}'" anxiety was. 1 could not speak to him; 1 
burst into a passionate fit of tears. 1 was wounded to the heart. 

” 1 suppose it is natural that you should dislike this haste, Hes- 
ter,” said ray feather in a slightly softened tone, ” 1 can understand 
that it is something of a shock to you; but 1 can not help it, my 
love. The circumstances are hard, and so is the necessity. 1 yield 
to you in tne more important particulars; you must yield to rne in 
this.” 

” Papal lean not leave you. Do not bid me,” 1 cried, eagerly, 
encouraged by his tone; ” to go away now would kill me. Father, 
father! have you no pity upon me? you can not have the heart to 
send me away!” 

” 1 have the heart to do all 1 think right. Hester!” said my father, 
sternly. ” 1 am the last man in the world to speak to of pity. Pity 
has ruined me; and 1 will do what is right, and not a false kind- 
ness, to my only child. This lover of yours is your own choice. 
Itemember at all times he is your own choice. ] might have made 
a wiser selection. 1 might not have made so good a one. The prob- 
ability is in your favor; but, however it happens, recollect that tlu> 
is your own election, and that 1 wash my hands of the matter. But 
1 insist on the condition 1 have told you of. What we have to do, 
we must do quickly. I'here is time enough for all necessary prep- 
arations, Hester.” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 69 

1 had taken my seat again in the dull anil mortified sullenness ol 
rejected affection and unappreciated teelings. Preparations! was 
it til at 1 cared torV 1 had no spirit to speak again. 1 rather was 
pleased to give up with a visible bad grace all choice and wish in 
the matter. 

“You do not answer me,” said my father. ” Is my substantial 
reason too little to satisfy your punctilio, Hester? are you afraid of 
what the world will say?” 

•' No! 1 know no world to be afraid of,” said 1, almost rudely, but 
with bitter tears coming to my eyes; ” if you care so little for me, 
1 do not mind for mpelf it it was to-morrow.” 

‘‘I do not choose it to be to morrow, however,” said my father,, 
with only a smile at my pique, ” there are some things necessary 
beforehand besides white satin and orange flowers. Alice has ar- 
ranged your dress befoie— you had better consult with her, and to- 
morrow 1 will give 3mu a sum suflicient for your equipment. That 
is enough, 1 think, Hester— neither of us seems to have any peculiar 
delight in the subject. 1 consiaer the matter settled so far as per- 
sonal discussion between us goes, the lesser arrangements we can 
manage at our leisure.” 

He drew his book to him, and opened it as he spoke. AVhen he 
began to read, he seemed to withdraw from rne into his retirement, 
abstracted and composed, leaving me in the tumult ot ray thoughts 
to subside into quietness as 1 best could. 1 sat still for some lime, 
leaning back in my chair, gnawing at my heart; but 1 could not 
bear it— and then 1 rose up to walk up and down from window ta 
window, my lather taking no note of me, what 1 did. As 1 wan- 
dered about in this restless and wretched way, isaw the lights in the 
college windows, shining through the half-closed curtain. He was 
there, brave, generous, simple heart! 1 woke out of my great mor- 
tification and grief, to a delight of rest and relaxation. Yes, he was 
there; that was his light shining in his window, and lie was sitting 
close by it looking out upon this place which inclosed me and mine. 
1 knew his thoughts now, and wliat he was doing, and 1 knew he 
was thinking of me. 

When my heart began to return to its former gladness, I went 
away softly to my own room, thinking that no one' would hear me, 
and that 1 might have a little time to myself; but when I had just 
entered, and was standing by the window leaning my head upon it, 
looking out at his window, and shedding some quiet tears, Alice 
once niore appeared upon me, with her candle in hei hand. She did 
not speak at first, but went about the room on several little pre- 
tenses waiting tor me to address her; then she said, ” Shall 1 leave 
the light. Miss Hester?” and stood gazing at me wistfully from be- 
side the dressing-table. 1 only said, ” Stay, Alice,” under my 
breath, but her anxious ear heard it. She put down the light at 
once, and went away to a distant corner of the room, where she 
pretended to be doing something; for she would not hasten me 
though she was very anxious— it was pure love and nothing else,, 
the love of Alice. 

“Alice!” 

She came to me in a moment. 1 had just drawn down the blind,. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


70 

and 1 crept close to her, as 1 used to do when 1 was a child. “ Do 
you know what has happened, Alice?” 1 said. 

“ Dear, I have had my thoughts,” said Alice; “ is it so then? and 
does your papa give his consent?” 

‘‘ Oh! papa is very cruel— very cruel!” cried 1 bitterly, “ he does 
not care for me, Alice. He caies nothing for me! he says it must 
be in three weeks, and speaks to me as if punctilio and prepara- 
tions were all 1 cared for. It is very hard to bear— he will force 
me to go away and leave him, when perhaps he is dying. Oh! 
Alice, it is very hard.” 

” Yes, my darling— yes, mydarling!” said Alice vaguely ; “and 
shall I live to dress another bride? oh! God bless them — God bless 
them! evil has been in the house, and distress, and sorrow — oh! that 
it may be purged and cleansed lor them.” 

“ What do you mean? what house, Alice?” 1 cried in gieat 
astonishment. 

Alice drew her hand slowly over her brow and said, “ 1 was 
dreaming; do not mind me. Miss Hester. I dressed your mamma, 
darling, and you’ll let me dress my own dear child.” 

“ No one else shall come near me; but think of it!” cried 1 in 
despair, “ in three weeks — and it must be. 1 think it will kill me. 
My father used to care for me, Alice, but now he is only anxious to 
send me away.” 

” Miss Hester, it is your father’s way; and he has his reasons,” 
said my kind comforter; “ think of your own lot, how bright it is, 
and your young bridegroom that loves 5 ’^ou dearly; think of him.” 

“ Yes, Alice,” 1 said very humbly; but 1 could not help starting 
at the name she gave him— it was so very sudden: every time 1 
thought of It, it brought a pang to my heart. 

But then she began to talk of the things we must get immediately 
— and 1 was not very old nor very wise — 1 w’as interested about 
these things very soon, and regarded this business of preparation 
with a good deal of pleasure; the white silk dress, and the veil, and 
the orange-blossoms — it may be a very poor thing to tell of myself, 
but 1 had a flutter of pleasure thinking of them; and there we sat, 
full of business, Alice and 1, and Alice went over my wardrobe in 
her i.iiaginatiou, and began to number so many things that I would 
require-- and it was so great a pleasure to her, and 1 was so much 
softened and cheered myself, that when 1 rose after she had left me, 
to wave my hand in the darkness at the light in his window, I had 
almost returned to the deep satisfaction of my first joy. 

But when 1 returned to the drawing-room— returned out of my 
own young blossoming life, wUh all its tumult of hopes, to my fa- 
ther, sitting alone at his book, all by himself, abstracted and soli- 
tary, like one whom life had parted from and passed by, 1 could 
not resist the sudden revulsion which threw me down once more- 
But now I was very quiet. 1 bent down my head into my hands 
wheie he could not see me weeping, i forgot he had wounded or 
injured me— 1 said, “ My father! my dear father !” softly to myself ; 
and then 1 began to dream how Harry would steal into his aflec- 
tlons— how he would woo him out of his solitude— how his for- 
saken desolate life would grow bright in our young house; and 1 
began to be very glad in my heart, though 1 did not dry my tears. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


71 


When we were parting for the night, my father came slowly up to 
me, and with a gesture of tondness out his hands on my head. 
“ Hester,” he said, in a low steady voice, ” you are my only child;” 
— that was all— but the words implied everything to me. 1 leaned 
upon his arm to hide my full eyes, and lie passed his hand softly 
over my hair — ” my only child; my only child!” he repeated once 
or twice, and then he kissed my cheek, said, ” God bless j-^ou, my 
love!” and sent me away. 

1 was very sad, yet 1 was very happy when 1 lay dotvn to rest. 
The blind was drawn up, and 1 could see the light still shining 
in Harry’s window; and 1 was not afraid now to put his name be- 
side my father’s when 1 said my prayers. It was very little more 
than ” saying ” my prayers, with me. 1 had no instruction, and in 
many things 1 was still a child. Just wdien 1 was ?oing to sleep,, 
some strange association brought into my mind what Alice had told 
me of m}; father; how rejoiced he looked on the da 3 ’^of his betrothal 
and how she never saw him look happy again— it was a painful 
thought, and it came to me as a ghost might have come to my bed- 
side; 1 could not get away from it. I had no fear for myself, yet 
this haunted me. Ah, my dear father! how unhappy he had been I 


THE NINTH DAY. 

It was the first of September, a Brilliant sunshiny autumn day. 
The light streamed full into my chamber window, and upon the 
figure of Alice standing before it, with her white apron and her 
white cap, so intensely white under the sunshine. She was drawing 
out rolls of white ribbon, and holding them suspended in the light 
for me to see. They were dazzling in their silken snowy luster. It 
was difficult to make a choice while this bright day glorified them 
al'. 

The room was not in disorder, yet it was littered everywhere with 
articles of dress. On my dressing-table was- a little open jewel-case 
with a bit of gold chain, and the little diamond pendant which 1 
had worn the first time 1 saw Harry— and the jewels were sparkling 
quietly, to themselves, in the shade. There were other ornaments, 
presents from him, lying beside this; and they made a subdued 
glow in the comparative dimness of that corner of the room. On 
my bed, catching a gleam of sunshine, lay my bridal dress, its rich 
full folds and white brocaded flowers glistening in the light. On 
the little couch near the window w^ere all the pretty things of lace 
Avhich graced my trousseau — the veil arranged by Alice’s own hand 
ovef a heap of rich purple silk which lay there for my approval, and 
which brought out to perfection the delicate pattern of the lace. 
And this w^as not all, for every chair held something— boxes of 
artificial flowers, so beautifully made, that it was impossible not to 
like them, exquisite counttifeits of nature— boxes of gloves, in deli- 
cate pale colors, fit for a bride— and last of all, this box of snowy 
white ribbons, from which we found it so difficult to choose. 

People speak of the vanity of all these bridal preparations. 1 
have heard often how foolish was all this display and bustle about 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


72 

a rnarriage. 1 do not think it. It is the one day in a woman’s life 
when everything and every one should do her honor. ^ As 1 stood 
with Alice in my bright room, half blinded with the intense light 
upon the white ribbons, 1 was pleased with all the things about me. 
1 had leisure to like everything, ami to be interested with all the 
additions to my wardrobe. Only once in one’s life can one be a 
bride. And all these while, fair, shining dresses— all these flowers, 
and draperies of lace, and pretty ornaments — they are not tokens of 
vanity always, but expressions of a natural sentiment — and they 
were very pleasant to me. 

“I’ll come out of the light. Miss Hester— here, dear, you can see 
them better now; though 1 like to see them shining in the sunshine. 
There is a beauty! — will this one do?’’ 

“ Do you think that is the best?’’ said 1, “then 1 will take it, 
Alice; and some for your cap, now; here is a satin one, and here is 
a gauze— but 1 must choose these myself; and you are to have your 
silk gown made and wear it — you are not to put it away in your 
drawer.’’ 

Alice looked down at her dark-green stufl gown, hanging quite 
dead and unbrightened even in that fervid sunshine, and shook her 
head with a smile of odd distress. “ It is much too fine tor me— 1 
was never meant to be a lady,’’ said Alice, “ but I’d wear white like 
a girl, sooner than cross you, my darling; and that is for me — bless 
your dear heart! that is a ribbon fit for a queen!” 

“ The queen is not to be here,” said 1, “ so you must wear it, 
Alice; but 1 do not want 3^11 to be without your apron. 1 like that 
great white apron. 1 wonder it 1 will like to lay down my head 
upon it, Alice, when 1 am old?” 

“ When you are old, Alice will not be here. Miss Hester,” she 
said with a smile; “ 3 ’’ou are like other young things, you think you 
will not be a young lady after you are married; but my darling, 
married or not married, the years take their full time to come.” 

“ Ah, 1 will never be a girl again,” said I, sighing with one of 
the half-mock, half-real sentimentalities of youth. “ Alice, do you 
think after all my father is pleased?” 

“ 1 think—” she began, but she stopped and paused, and evident- 
ly took a second thought; “ 3 ^es, Miss Hester, I think he is pleased, 
she said, “ he has every reason — 3 ’^es, dear, don’t fear for your papa; 
it is all good— all better than anybody could have planned it — 1 
know it is.” 

“Do you know that you speak very oddly sometimes, Alice!'” 
said 1 ; “ you speak as it you were a prophet, and knew something 
about us, that we did not ourselves anow.” 

“ Don’t you think such things, Miss Hester,” said Alice hurrie(Jly, 
and her face reddened, “lam no gypsy nor fortune-teller either— 
not a bit.” 

“ Are you angry?” said I, “ angiy with me, Alice?” 1 was a lit- 
tle surprised — aud it was quite true that two or three times 1 had 
been at a loss to know' what she meant. 

“ Angry with you— no, darling, nor never was all your life,” said 
Alice, “ for all you have your own proud temper, Miss Hester— and 
1 never was one to flatter. Shall 1 send the box away? look, dear, 
it you have got all.” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


1 had got all that we wanted, and when she went away 1 drew 
my chair to the window, and began a labor of Jove. Alice never 
changed the tashion of her garments, and while she labored night 
and day lor me, 1 w-as making a cap for her, and braiding a new 
muslin apron, which she was to w'ear on the clay. 1 was ver}^ busy 
wdth the apron, doing it after a fashion of my own, and in a pattern 
which Alice would think all the more of, because it w^as my own 
design— though 1 am not very sure that it gained much in effect by 
that circumstance. 1 drew my seat near to the open window, into 
the sunshine, and began to work, singing to myselt very quietly but 
very gladly, as the pattern grew under my fingers. My heart re- 
joiced in tiie beautiful day, and in its own gladness; 1 do not think 
even that its joys were less pleasant for the tremor of expectation,, 
and the flutter of fear, which my strange new circumstances brought 
me. And when 1 glanced from the window, hearing a step in the 
garden, there was Harry, wandering about, looking up at me. 

When he caught mj eye, he began to beckon with all his might,, 
and tempt me to come down to him. I had seen him already this^ 
morning — 1 knew it was not because he had anything to say — so I 
shook my head and returned to my work. Then hiT began to tele- 
graph his despair, his impatience, his particular wish to talk to me 
— and kej t me so occupied smiling at him, and answering his sig- 
nals, that the apron did not make more progress than if 1 liaTl gone 
down. At last, however, Alice came back, and 1 looked from the 
window no more, but went on soberly with my occupation. 1 hgd 
no young friends to see my pretty things — so Alice began to put 
them away. 

A fortnight was gone since that day when we were “ engaged ”■ 
as Alice called it; and in a week — only a week now— the other day 
was to come. 

“ You have never told me yet. Miss Hester,” said Alice, as she 
passed behind me, ” where j’^ou are going, after — ” 

1 interrupted her hurriedly. 1 was frightened to hear this dread- 
ful C(‘reinony mentioned in so many words; and the idea of going 
away w^as enough to oveiset my composure at an v time. 1 who had 
never left home before — and such a going away as this! 

“We are to go abroad,” 1 answered hurriedly; ” but only for a 
few weeks— and then to have a house in Cambridgeshire, it we caa 
find one very near at hand, Alice.” 

” Yes,” answered Alice. 

There was so much implied in this ” yes ”— it seemed so full of 
information and consciousness, as if she could tell me more than 1 
told her, that 1 was annoyed and almost irritated. In the displeas- 
ure of the moment 1 could not continue the conversation; it was 
very strange what Alice could mean by these inferences, and why 
she looked so much offended when 1 spoke to her about them. 1 
saw that Harry was still in the garden, looking up and beckoning 
to me again, w’hen he saw me look out— so 1 put away my work, 
and went down to hear wdiat he had to say. 

He had not anything very particular to say; but it w^as not dis- 
agreeable, though there was little originality in it, and 1 had heard 
nmst of it before; and he helped me with some flowers in the green- 
house which hail been sadly neglected, and w’e cut some of the 


THE HAYS OF MY LIFE. 


74 

finest of those in the garden for the vase upon my little table up- 
stairs; and he told me 1 ought to wear flowers in my hair, and said 
he wmuld Itring me a wreath of briony. “ I should like to bind the 
beautiful clustered berries over those brown locks of yours, Hester,” 
he said, “ 1 will tell you some day how 1 came to know the briony 
first, and fell in love wiih it — it was one of tlie first incidents in my 
life.” 

” Tell me now, then,” said 1. 

But he shook his head and smiled. ” Not now— wait till I can 
get a wreath of it fresh from a Cambridgeshire hedgerow, and then 
1 will tell .you my tale.” 

” 1 shall think it is a tale about a lady it you speak of it so mys- 
teriously,” said I — and when 1 turned to him, 1 saw he blushed. 

It was so. then,” 1 said, with the slightest pique possible; 1 was 
not quite pleased. 

‘‘ There never was but one in the world to me, Hester,” he said 
— and I very soon cast dotvn my eyes—” so it could not be about a 
lady, unless it happened in a dream, and the lady was you.” 

1 looked at him with a strange perplexity — he wms almost as hard 
to understand as Alice was— but he suddenly changed the conversa- 
tion, and made me quite helpless for any further controversj' by 
talkii:^ about what we were to do next week, after— 1 was alw’^ays 
silenced in a moment by a reference to that. 

Then my father looked out fiom the library window and called 
to us. My father had been a good deal occupied with Harry, and 1 
pleased myself with thinking that he began to like him already. 
They seemed very good friends, and Harry showed so much defer- 
ence, and was so anxious to follow papa’s wishes in everything, that 
1 was very grateful to him; all the more because 1 thought it was 
from his own natural goodness he did this, fully more than from a 
wish to please me. 

We went in together to the library. My father was reading papers 
■ — some of those long straggling papers tied together at the top, 
which always look so ominous, and are so long- winded. His book 
was put away, and instead he had pen and ink and his great blot- 
tiug-book before him. My father had been writing much and read- 
ing little, during these two W’eeks; the occupation of his life was 
rudely broken in upon by our arrangements, and though 1 could 
not understand how it was that he had so much business thrown 
upon him, the fact seemed to be certain. There w^as more life even 
in the room— it was less orderly — and there was a litter of papers 
upon the table. My father looked well, pale and self-possessed, but 
not so deadly calm, and he called Harry to him with a kind and 
familiar gesture. 1 had not yet overcome the embarrassment which 
1 always felt when 1 was wdth them both— and when 1 saw my 
father pointing out sundry things in the papers to Harry— that they 
w'ere consulting together about these, and that 1 was not a necessary 
spectator— T glanced over some books for a few minutes, and then 1 
turned to go away. When he saw me moving toward the door, my 
lather looked up. ” Wait a little, Hester, 1 may want you by and 
by,” he said. I was obedient and came back, but 1 did not like 
being here with Harry. 1 did not feel that our young life and our 
bright prospects were fit to intrude into this hermit’s room— and 1 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


75 


wondered if it would look drearier or more solitary— if my father 
would leel any want of me in my familiar place — when ! went 
away. 

But 1 had very little reason 1o flatter myself that he would miss 
me. lie conducted all these matters with a certain satisfaction, 1 
thought. He was glad to have me “ settled;” and though 1 think 
he had been kinder than usual ever since that night, he had never 
said that it would grieve him to part with me, or that the house 
would be sad wdien 1 was gone. 

There was a pause in their consultation. 1 heard, for 1 did not 
see, because 1 had turned to the window, and they w^re behind me; 
and then my father said — ” Come here, Hester; we have never 
talked together of these arrangements—sit down by me here, and 
try, it it will not distress you too much, to go over the programme 
of the drama in w^hich you are to be a principal actor— here is a 
chair, sit down.” 

1 turned, and went slowly to the seat he pointed out to me. I 
Wiis very reluctant, but 1 could not disobey him, not even though 1 
saw Harry’s lace bending forward eagerly to know if this was dis- 
agreeable to me. 

” In the first place,” said my father, with a smile, ” it is perhaps 
well that Hester is no heiress, as she once was supposed to be. Had 
my daughter inherited the family estate, her husband mrrst have 
taken her name, and that is a harder condition than the one 1 stipu- 
lated for,” 

As there was no answ^er for a moment, 1 glanced shyly under the 
hand w^hich supported my head, at Harry. To my great surprise, 
he seemed strangely and palulully agitated. There was a deep color 
on his face. He did not lift his eyes, but shifted uneasily, and al- 
most with an air of girilt, upon his chair; and he began to speak in 
an abrupt manner* and with an emotion which the subject surely 
did not deserve. 

“Hester is worth a greater sacriflce than that of a name like 
mine,” he said; “ it would give me pleasure to show my sense of 
the honor you do me by admitting me into your family. 1 have no 
counections whom i can grieve by abandoning my own name, and 
1 have no love for it, even though Hester has made it pleasanter to 
my ear. Let me be called Southcote. 1 should have proposed it 
myselt had 1 thought it would be agreeable to you, Y ou have no 
son. When you give Hester to me, make me altogether your repre- 
sentative. I shall feel you do me a favor. Pray let us settle it 
so.” 

My father looked at him with scrutinizing eyes— “ VYlien 1 w^as 
your age, young man, not for all the bounties of life would 1 have 
relinquished my name.” 

Onte more Harry blushed painfully 1, too, for the moment would 
rather that he had not made this proposal— yet how very kind it 
was of him! I could not but appreciate the sacriflce which he made 
for me. 

“ Your name was the name of a venerable family, distinguished 
and dear to you,” be said, after a little pause. “ 1 am an orphan 
with no recollections that endear mine. Hay, Mr. Southcote, do not 
fear. 1 have no antecedents which make me ashamed of it; but for 


76 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


Hester’s sake and yours, 1 will gladly relinquish the name 1 bear. 
If you do not wish it, that is another question.” 

Tliere was a suppressed eagerness in his lone which impressed me 
strangely. 1 could understand how, in an impulse of generosity, he 
might make the proposal; but 1 could not tell why he should be so 
anxious about it. It was very strange. 

”1 have not sufficient self-denial to say that,” said my father. 
”1 do wish it. It will gratify me more than anything else can— 
and 1 do not see, indeed, why,‘being satisfied on every other point, 
1 should quarrel with you for proposing to do what 1 most desire! 
but regard for liis own name is so universal in every man— 1 confess 
in other circumstances 1 should have been disposed to despise the 
man who accepted my heiress and her name with her. You, of 
course, are in an entirely different position. 1 can onl}'^ accept your 
offer with giatitude. it is true, as you say, 1 have no son— 3n>u 
shall be my representative — yes, and 1 shall be glad to think,” said 
my father, with a momentary softening, and in a slow and linger- 
ing tone, ” that she is Hester Southcote still.” 

Ah, those unfrequent touches of tenderness, how they over- 
powered me! I did not wish to let my father see me cry, like a 
weak girl; but 1 put my hands on my eyes to conceal my tears. He 
did care for me, though he expressed it so little; and when he said 
so much, 1 w'as glad too that 1 was still to bear my father’s name — 
glad of this new proof of Harry’s regard, and proud of the self-re- 
linquishment — the devotion he showed to me. 

There was a considerable pause after that — we did not seem at 
our ease, any one of us, and when 1 glanced up again, Harry, though 
he looked relieved, was still heated and embarrassed, and watched 
my father eagerly. He cleared his voice a great many times, as if 
to speak— changed his position— glanced at me,; but did not seem 
able to say anything after all. My father had a taint smile upon 
his face— though it was a smile, 1 did not think it a pleasant one— 
and 1 was quite silent, with a vague fear of what w'as to follow. 

But nothing followed to confirm my alarm. When my father 
spoke again it was quite in his usual lone: 

” Then, with this one change — which, by the bye, requires our 
instant attention as to the papers and everything necessary — our 
arrangements stand as before; and you leave Cambridge on Tues- 
day, and return in a month, either here or to some house which 
Mr. Osborne may find for you. Osborne is your agent, 1 under- 
stand? You leave these matters in his hand? Now, 1 must know 
the hour you will leave me-^how you are to travel— and where you 
will go first; and if 1 may depend certainly on the time of your 
return?” 

“We will fix it for any time you choose,” said Harry, quickly, 
and with an air of relief. “ 1 shall be only too proud to bring Hes- 
ter home, and to see her in our own settled house; but you must 
give us our moon; we have a right to that — /have a right to that. 
You will not grudge us our charmed holiday. 1 shall be content to 
have no other all my life.” 

My father looked at him with a smile, almost of scorn— but it 
soon settled into a fixed and stern gravity. ” 1 will not grudge your 
pleasure— no,” he said in the tone of a monitor who means to imply 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


77 

it is all vanity “ but I wish to have your assurance that 1 may 
trust you. And you, Hester, are you nearly ready to go atvaylroni 
me?” 

“Oh! papa, papal” 1 cried. Was he disposed to regret meat 
last? 

“ Nay, nay, child, we must have no lamentations,” said my fa- 
ther, “ no weeping for the house you leave bebind. On the verge 
of your life be sparing of your tears, Hester — if you have not occa- 
sion for them all, one"day or another, you will be strangely favored. 
Are you ready, tell me, 1 have been hard upon you sometimes; 1 
am not a man of genial temper, and wnaL kindness was in me was 
soured. There— 1 apologize to you, Hester, for wounding your 
sensibilities— they distress me; and now answer my question.” 

“ i shall be ready,” I said. This dreadful coldness of his always 
drove me into a sullen gloom. 

“ Very well; you have chosen each other,” said my father grave- 
ly; “ and now you are about to begin your life. 1 am no dealer iu 
good advice or moral maxims. 1 only bid you remember that it is 
of your own free will you bind yourselves in this eternal coniract. 
This union on which you are entering has a beginning, but no end. 
Its edects are everlasting; you can never deliver yourselves from its 
influences, its results. On the very heart and soul of each of you 
will be the bonds of your marriage; and neither separation, nor 
change, nor death, can obliterate the mark they will make. I do 
not speak to discourage you. 1 only bid you think of the life be- 
fore you, and remember that you pursue it together of your own 
free choice.” 

“ We do not need that you should use such solemn words; they 
are not for us, father,” said Harry, advancing to my side, and 
drawing my hand within his arm. He was afraid that 1 could not 
bear this, when he saw me diooping and leaning on the chair from 
which 1 had just risen. He did not know what a spirit of defiance 
these words roused in me. “ Hester trusts me and does not feai 
that 1 will make her life wretched; and, as tor me, my happiness is 
secure when 1 claim the right to stand by her, and call her mine. 
There are no dark prognostics in our lot — think not so. We will 
fear God, and love each other; and I desire to feel the bonds of my 
marriage in my very soul and heait. 1 do not care to have a thought 
that is not hers— not a wish that my wife will not share with me. 
Say gentler words to us, father! Bless us as you bless her in 
your heart. She is a young, tender, delicate woman. She trembles 
already; but you will not speak only such words as make her trem- 
ble more?” 

My father stood by himself, stooping slightly, leaning his hands 
upon the table before him, and looking at us. Harry's firm voice 
shooK a little as he ended; his eyes w^ere glistening, and there was 
a noble, tender humility about his whole look and altitude, which 
w’as a very great and strange contrast to the cold, self-possessed 
man before him. 1 saw that my father was struck by it. 1 saw that 
the absence of any thought for himself— that his care and regard for- 
me moved with a strange wonder my father’s unaccustomed heart. 
The young man’s generous life and love, the very strength of all the 
youthful modest power of which he would make no boast— his 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


78 

entire absence ot offense, yet firm and quiet assertion of what was 
due to our young expectations and hopes, and perhaps the waj'^ in 
which we stood together, my arm in his, leaning upon him, im- 
pressed my father. He looked at us long with a steady, full look; 
and then he spoke: 

“You are right —it does not become me to bode evil to my own 
child, nor to her bridegroom. God bless you! 1 say the words 
heartil}’'; and now leave me. 1 am weary, and will call you it 1 
need you, Hester— 1 am not ill, do not fear for me.’' 

He took our hands, Harry’s and mine, and held them tightly 
within his own; then he said again, “ Children, God bless you!’’’ 
and sent us away. 

"We went up to the drawing-room together; Harry had spent al- 
most all the day with us for at least a week past, and even now he 
did not seem disposed to go away. hen 1 told him that 1 had 
something to do, he bade me bring it and work beside him —he 
would like to see me working; so 1 did what he said— and while 1 
was busy with Alice’s apron, he talked to me, for 1 did not speak 
a great deal myself. My mind was somewhat troubled by what my 
father said. 1 had an uneasy sense of something doubtful and un- 
certain in our circumstances, of some secret or mj^stery, though 1 
could not tell what it was. 1 do not think 1 was pleased that Harry 
should be so willing to resign his name. It was one of those con- 
cessions which a woman does not like to have made to her. A true 
w’omau is far happier to receive rank than to confer it. "vYhen she 
is placed in these latter circumstances, she is thrown upon the false 
expedient of undervaluing herself, and what she has to bestow\ 1 
would much rather have felt that Harry was quite superior to mo 
in all external matters — then we could have stood on our natural 
ground to each other, and 1 should have been proud of his name; 
but it was not a pleasant idea to me that he himself thought it un- 
worthy, and that he was to adopt mine. 

“ You are very grave, Hester — are you thinking of what your 
father said?” he asked me at last. 

“ 1 do not quite know what 1 am thinking ot,” 1 said with a faint 
sigh. 

“ No, it is a summer cloud,” said Harry, “ something floating 
over this beautiful sky of our happiness; but it will not last, Hes- 
ter. 1 know you may trust yourself— your sweet young life and all 
its hopes— I think you need not fear to trust them with me.” 

“ 1 have no fear— it is not that,” said 1; “do not mind. L can 
not tell what it is that troubles me.’' 

He bent down upon his knee to see m}'- face, which was stooping 
over Alice’s apron, and he put his hand upon mine , and arrested 
my fingers, which were playing nervously with the braid. “ Do 
yo'u remember the compact you made with me, Hester? Can not 
tell as for other people; but what troubles you should trouble me 
also.” 

“ Nay, 1 would not have that,” said I huriiedly, “ that would be 
selfish; but indeed 1 don’t know wdiat it is — 1 rather feel as if there 
w’as something that I did not know — as if there was a secret some- 
where which somebody ought to tell me; 1 can not guess what or 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 79 

where it is, I think there is siirel^’' somethino;. Do you know of auv- 
thing, Harry?” 

He continued to kneel at my knee, holding my hand, and looking 
up in my tace, and 1 gazed at him wistfully, wondering to see the 
color rise to his very hair. He did not remove his eyes from me — 
what could it be that brought that burning crimson to his face? 

But 1 (lid not wait for his answer. In my womanish foolishness, 
afraid that 1 was grieving him, 1 took away the opportunity — that 
opportunity — what misery it might have saved mel and spoke my- 
self, wearing the time away till he had quite recovered himself. ‘"l 
do not think you would hide anything from me, Harry, w'hich I 
ought to know; my father scarcely knows that I am a woman now; 
it is hard for him to get over the habit of thinking me a child; hut 
you are no older than 1 am; we are equal there — and you would 
not surely use me as it 1 was unfit to know all that concerns us 
both?” 

‘‘ We are equal there,” he said, repeating my words hurriedly, 
yet without any answer to the meaning of them; ” but 1 do not think 
we are nearly equals in anything else, Hester. Your sincere heart 
— if 1 begin to speak of that though, 1 shall soon make myself out 
a very poor fellow, and 1 would rather you did not think me so just 
yet. Equal! why 1 am justly entitled to call myself your superior 
in that particular at least — for you know 1 am two or three years 
older than you are.” 

” 1 was not speaking of that,” said 1 gravely. 

”1 know you were not speaking of that,” said Harry, ” you were 
speaking of the summer cloud. See, Hester, there is another on the 
sky; look how it floats away with the sunshine and the wind. 
There shall be neither secret or mystery between us, trust me. I 
waul your help and sympathy too much for that.” 

” There shall be,” 1 said to myself in an undertone. I was not 
satisfied; this promise was future, and Harry did not say, ” There 
is none.” 

But at this moment we heard the door open below, and JMr. Os- 
borne’s voice asking for my father. 

I rose in great haste and ran upstairs. 1 forgot everything of 
more importance, and only remembered how embarrassed and un- 
comfortable 1 should be if Mr. Osborne came in and found us to- 
gether. 1 went back again to my room with my heart beating quick. 
The vague and uncertain doubtfulness which had taken possession 
of me did not prompt any distrust of Harry. It was not that 1 
feared he was deceiving me, or that 1 dreamed of such a possibility. 
The utmost length to which my suspicions went was a little jealousy 
of something \^hich 1 did not know, and was not told of — and when 
1 reflected over it in my own room, 1 found no particular founda- 
tion for these doubts of mine; but still 1 should have much pre- 
ferred that Harry had not offered to take our name. It was gener- 
ous, like himself. 1 was no heiress that he should have done it for 
the land, or for the ranK 1 brought him. Instead of that, he did it 
for pure love; but 1 was perverse still, and 1 was not pleased. 

When 1 went down-stairs 1 found that Mr. Osboine was to dine 
with us, and that Harry had not gone away; and after a little time 
1 found that 1 was very glad of Mr. Osborne’s presence at table. 


80 


THE DAYS OF 31 Y LIFE. 


]\Iy father spoke very little, and seemed more abstracted than usual.. 
Harry was almost talkative, on the contrary, but he was less easy 
than 1 had seen him; and as for me, 1 said nothing, but watched 
them with a strange fascination, as if 1 was the spectator of some 
drama of which 1 must find out the secret. It was a lelief to see 
Mr. Osborne’s uninterrupted spirits, his usual manner and bearing. 
1 wonder it they are happier than other people, those men who have 
nobody to disturb their equanimity, no one to put them out of tem- 
per, or break their hearts— but at any rate, it was a comfort to look 
at 3lr. Osborne,, and to see, whatever change might be in us, that 
there was none in him. 

After dinner Harry left us, though only for a time, and 1 had 
been by myself in the drawing-room for nearly an hour, when Mr. 
Osborne came in, and approached me with something in his hand. 
AVhen he opened it, it turned out to be another little gold chain 
with something hanging from it, very much like my little diamond 
ornament; but this was a very small miniature of a ver^*^ young 
sweet face, so smiling, and loving, and gentle, that it was pleasant 
to look at it. “ 1 think this is the fittest present 1 can make you,’" 
said Mr. Osborne. “ You know who it is, Hester?” 

” No,” 1 said; though from the look he gave me, 1 guessed at 
once. 

” It is very like her,” he said in a low voice; “ like what she was 
when 1 had a young man’s fancy for that pretty, sweet young 
face. No, Hester, you need not glance at me so wistfully— she 
did not break my heart; but 1 love you the better, my child, that 
she was your mother.” 

“And this is my mother!” 1 said; it was younger than 1, this 
innocent, simple, girlish face — my neartwas touched by its gentle- 
ness, its happiness, the love and kindness in its sweet eyes— my tears 
began to fall fast upon the jeweled rim— this was my mother! and 
it was not a face to make any one unhappy. 1 did not think of 
thanking Mr. Osborne, 1 only thought of her. 

“ She must have been very happy,” I said, softly; we sunk our 
voices speaking of her. 

“ She w'as very happy then,” said Mr. Osborne, “ the sunshine 
was her very life, Hester; and when it faded away from her, she 
died.” 

These words recalled me to myself. 1 could not permit him to 
go on, perhaps to blame my father; so 1 .interrupted him lo thank him 
very gratefully for his present. 

“ She used to w^ear an ornament like this; and the miniature is 
from a sketch 1 myself made of her in her first youth,” said Mr. 
Osborne. “ 1 know your father has no portrait, but there is one in 
the possession of her friends.” 

“Her friends! has she friends living?” 1 asked eagerly; “Ido 
not know what it is to have relations. 1 wonder if they know any- 
thing of ns.” 

“ You have one relation at least, Hester,” said Mr. Osborne; “ is 
it possible after all his attempts to become acquainted with you, 
that yon have never given a kind thought to your cousin?” 

“ 1 do not know my cousin-, sir,” 1 answered rather haughtily, “ 1 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 81 

do not wish to know him — we have nothing in common with each 
other, he and 1.” 

“ llow do you know that?” said my companion. ‘‘ Hester, when, 
you do know him, do him justice. 1 have seen Edgar Southcote — 
1 know few like him— and he ill-deserves unkindness, or distrust, or 
resentment at your hands. Now hear me, Hester; lhave given you 
this portrait of your mother, because 1 loved her in my youth, and 
because you are as dear to me as it you were my own child; but I 
give it you also as a charm against the cruel injustice, the suspicion,, 
and the pride of your race. A false conception of her motives, 
obstinately held and dwelt upon, killed your poor mother. Yes; I 
do not want to mince words. It made her wTetched first and then 
it killed her. Hester, bf*vvare! your husband’s happiness depends 
as much on you as yours does on him. He is himsell a noble young- 
man, worthy the regard of any woman; and 1 have had a higher 
opinion of yrmrself ever since 1 saw that you valued him. When 
you leave your father’s house, take this sweet counselor with yoii- 
Remember the cause that broke her young heart, and left you with- 
out a mother in the world. Let the glance of these sweet frank eyes 
teach you a woman’s wisdom, my dear child. Forgive what is 
wrong— foster what is right. Hester! 1 am making a long speech 
to you. It is the first and last preachment you will hear from an 
old friend.” 

1 had risen while he was speaking, and stood before him a little 
pound, a little indignant, waiting till he should come to an end. 
Then 1 said, ” Mr. Osborne, I can not hear you blame my father.” 

‘‘lam not blaming your father, Hester. I am warning you,” he 
answered; ‘‘ and 1 do it because you are as a child to me.” 

I thanked him again, kissed the little miniature, and put it round 
my neck. But Mr. Osborne would not suffer this. ” Time enough,’^ 
he said. ‘‘ when you go away. Do not awake too strongly your 
father’s recollections. He is not in a fit state for that.” 

‘‘ He is not worse?” 1 exclaimed eagerly. 

‘‘No, Hester, he is not worse— but he is not strong, you know. 
Now go and put this away, and remember n>y words, like a good 
child.” 

AVhen 1 took it upstairs, Alice was in the room— and when she 
saw it, Alice wept over it, and exclaimed how like it was. Then 
she clasped it on my neck, and kissed me, and cried, and said how 
glad she was that 1 should have such a token of my mother; and 
then Alice, loo, began to admonish me. ‘‘ Oh! think of her some- 
times, Miss Hester! Think how her young life and all her hopes 
■were lost. It was no blame of hers, "my sweet young lady! Oh! 
think of your mother, dear child,” 1 was strangel}’^ shaken b.y all 
these admonitions. 1 did not know w^hether to reject them indig- 
nantly, or to sit, down on the floor, and cry with mortification and 
annoyance. What occasion had they all to be afraid of my spirit or 
temper? 1 put away the beautiful little portrait at last, with a 
vexed and sullen pain. Why did everybody preach to me on this 
text? 1 had never harmed my mother— and how could my circum- 
stances possibly resemble those she was placed in? If this sweet,, 
gentle smile of hers was to be a perpetual reproach to me, how 
could 1 have any pleasure in it? 1 was annoyed and vexed with 


82 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


everybody, and tbough in the rebound, my heart clung still more 
to my father, I could not go to him to seek tor sympathy. I 
wandered out into the garden, into the twilight, thinking with a 
deepei pity ot his disappointed heart. 1 forgave him all his hard 
w^ords and coldness, thinking mysteriously of the darkness which 
had fallen ov^er all his life; and 1 could not be patient with my ad- 
visers who had been warning me by his example. How could they 
tell what he had suffered? What was it to them that he had looked 
for love, and had not found it? In imagination, 1 stood by my 
father’s side, vindicatinfr and defending, and said to myself with 
indignant earnestness: “ Kobody shall blame him to me.” 

1 was not even satisfied with Hariy. He had not answ'ered me 
plainly, and he had gone away. 1 paced up and down the springy, 
fragrant grass with short impatient steps. 1 forgot that the night- 
wind was chill, and that 1 had nothing to protect me from it. I 
was not at all in a sweet or satisfactory mood of mind; and wdien I 
thought of the continual happy smile of the miniature, it rather 
chafed and annoyed than calmed me. While 1 was thus wander- 
ing in the garden, at issue w'ith myself and every one around, 1 sud- 
denly heard a step behind, and as suddenly felt a great, soft shawl . 
throw’n over me. 1 resisted my first impatient impulse to throw it 
oft, and submitted to have myself wrapped in it, and a told of it 
thrown over my head like a hood— the warmth and shelter it seemed 
to give, had something strangely pleasant in them. 1 was soothed 
against my will— and Harry drew my arm through his, and we 
continued our walk in silence. It was pleasant to be taken posses- 
sion of so quietly — it was pleasrnt to feel that some one had a right 
to take care of me, whether i would or no. 

And then Harry had all the talk to himself for a long time, 
though it was not the less agreeable on that account; and then my 
troubled mood went away, and 1 told him of IMr. Osborne’s present, 
and how they had been cautioning me on his behalf— and, indeed, 
made a confession of the temper 1 was in when he came to me; 
things w'ere very different now. 1 perceived it w^as a beautiful 
dewy autumn night, with a young moon in the sky, and pale sil- 
very stars half lost in the mist of the milky way — and there was a 
breath ot faint fragrance in the air, and one by one the lights were 
beginning to shine in tiie college windows— these friendly lights 
which 1 had watched so long; then my father’s lamp was lighted 
in the library. In the stillness and darkness we wandered through 
the garden, speaking little, finding no great necessity to speak. 
Out of all the agitation ot the day, it happened to me now to be- 
come very quiet, and very happy ; my heart beat quick, yet softly 
— 1 no longer felt the chill evening breath, nor chafed at what had 
been said to me; what mattered all that had been said to me? 
AVhen Harry and 1 were together. 1 knew nothing could ever step 
in between us. Nobody else understood me as he did. Nobody^ 
else.like me, trusted in him. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


8B 


THE TEKTH DAY. 

It was my marriage day. 

1 awoke when the morning was breaking with its chill harmony 
of tints in the east. 1 went to my window, to watch the rosy 
touches rising upon the gray of dawn; to look upon those long 
wide lines of cloud which seemed to stretch out their vain ineftect- 
ual barriers to keep down the rising day. 1 lingered till the early 
sunshine came down aslant uoon the topmost boughs, and woke the 
birds to twitter their good-morrow — till the darkness in the garden 
paths underneath yielded and fled before this sweet invasion, and 
took a momentary refuge in the depths of dreamy shadow, under 
the three elm-trees at the boundary w^all. No one was astir but 1 — 
there was not a sound but the chirp of little housewives iu their 
leafy nests, up betimes to seek the day’s provision. I saw nothing 
but the sky, the clouds, the early light, the dew glistening on the 
trees, the sunshine touching the little deep-set windows of Corpus, 
and the morning mist just clearing from the brown outline of its 
wall. 

It was my wedding-day— the first grand crisis of my life— and 1 
had no lack of material tor my thought; but 1 was not thinking as 
I knelt b}' the window in mj’- white dressing-gown, vacantly look- 
ing out upon the rising day. My mind was full of a vague tumult 
of imagination. I m 3 ^selt was passive and made no exertion, but 
looked at the floating pictures before me, as 1 might have looked in 
a dream. My fanc}’’ was like the enchanted mirror in the story; out 
of the mists, scenes and figures developed themselves for a moment, 
and faded into vapor once more. The .^cenes were those of mj’’ 
girlish life; so many lecollections of it came back upon me; so 
iiiaiiy glimpses 1 hail of that careless sunshine — tliose unencumbered 
days! When 1 was a child at Cottiswoode— where I was the yourg 
hui}' of the manor, and knew all these lands over wdiich J looked in 
my frank girlish pride to be our own— then the time when the new 
lieir came — and then all those years and hours w'hich had gone over 
me here. 1 saw myself in the garden on which 1 was looking cow 
with dreamy eyes--l saw myself in the corner of the window-seat 
looking out upon the twinkling lights of Corpus, and making 
fiieiids to myself, in my silence and solitude, of the owmers of these 
lights; and then Harry glided in upon my dreams, and 1 woke with a 
startling flush of consciousness to remember ■what day this Avas, and 
to know that 1 myself was a bride! 

Yes, a bride! to go awniy from my father’s hou.se in a few hours 
never to come back to it again as to my home To take farewell 
of all my girlish loneliness and retirements, and wild fancies — to 
give over all the involuntary romancings and possibilities, the un- 
communicated and self-contained life of my j’-outh. 1 almost fan- 
cied, with a sudden shrinking and tremor, tliat this was the last 
hour of all my life in "w^hich 1 should be alone. 1 buried ray face 
in my hands at the thought— though there was no one there to see 


84 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


Tile 1 felt my face burn with a hot heavy glow. 1 hart in me a rest- 
less sense of excitement, a reluctant haste and yet a passive con- 
sciousness of certainty, of necessity, of something fixed and absolute, 
from which there was neither way nor means to recede. A. thing 
which must be always rouses a little defiance, a little resistance— 
and the morning of a bridal is seldom a time of perfect happiness to 
anybody concerned. 1 lay with my head upon the custiion of my 
chair, kneeling bet are it. 1 tried to say my prayers, but my thoughts 
wandered off from the familiar words. My thoughts seemed wan- 
dering everywhere, and wouhi not be composed into steady atten- 
tion for a moment — and after 1 had said the vrords, 1 knew with a 
certain shock and distress that 1 had meant nothing by them, and 
that these childish sentences that claimed sincerity more than the 
most elaborate compositions could have done, were only a cover for 
a tumult of agitating thoughts. After this, in real distress at my 
involuntary mocking of prayer, 1 spoke aloud, and trembling, with 
my face still hidden, what plain words 1 could think of, asking for 
a blessing. “ Oh, Lord, bless us, bless us!” 1 almost think that 
was all that 1 could keep my inind Id — and after 1 had maile this 
child’s outcry, 1 lay still, kneeling, hiding my face, in this little 
pause of vacant time, on the threshold of my fate. 

When 1 heard some one stirring below, and after an interval, when 
Alice’s step approached my door, 1 rose up hurriedly, that she ^ 
might not see me thus. Alice could not tell whether to smile or to 
cry, as she came tow'ard me. It was a true April face, beaming and 
showery, that stooped toward me as she kissed my cheek. “ Bless 
you, my darlingl” said Alice, and with the words the tears fell; but 
she recovered immediately and set me down in the old-fashioned 
easy- chair, and drew a little table before me, and brought me some 
tea; and henceforward 1 delivered myself up into the hands of 
Alice, and was served and waited upon as if 1 had been a child. 

It was still only seven o’clock, and there was no haste, yet we 
began my solemn toilet immeoiately. 1 became quite calm"^ under 
the sway of Alice, When she brushed my hair over my shoulders, 

1 shook it round me like a xeil, and defied her to reduce it into 
order. 1 was relieved and eased by her company — 1 had no longer 
the opportunity of bewildering myself with my own thoughts — and 
as Alice brushed and braided, she told me stories, as she had been 
used to do, of many another biide. 

” For nobody makes much account of the bridegroom. Miss 
Hester, ” said Alice; “ though the wedding wouldn’t be much of a 
wedding without him, and though a handsome young gentleman 
like our Mr. Harry is a pleasure to see in the day of his joy; but 
even it it’s a poor countiy maid, instead of a young lady, everyone 
wants a look of the bride. The married folks think of their young 
days, and the young folks of what’s to come, and 1 think there’s 
never a mortal, unless he’s quite given over to the Evil One, but has 
a kind thought for a bride.” 

To this 1 answered nothing, but only played with a superb brace- 
let Harry had given me, sliding it on and off my arm, and watching 
the glitter of the light in the precious stones. 

” But, my darling, you haven’t half the company you should have 
had,” continued Alice, smoothing my hair with her large kind hand, 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


85 


in a caressing motion. “ Halt a dozen pretty young bride-maids, 
at the least, ought to have gone with you— alTin their pretty gowns 
and their white libbons; and now there’s only Mr, Osborne’s niece, 
just for the name of the thing, and not another woman but me.” 

” That is because 1 know no one, Alice,” said 1. 

” But you should have know’u some one, dear,” said Alice. ” It's 
not in nature for a young thing to be so lonesome; but that’s all 
to be mended now. You’ll not make light of the country people. 
Miss Hester, as your papa did “I promise me now; my dear young 
lady had friends amongst them, and you’ll think well of them, for 
her sake, when you get home?” 

‘‘ What country people, Alice? 1 don’t suppose we shall be lich 
enough to keep company with great people,” said 1; ” but you al- 
ways speak as it you knew quite well wdiere 1 was to live, when the 
Irutn is, that nobody knows, anil that Mr. Osborne is to find a house 
for us, it he can.” 

Alice made no immediate reply. 1 liked her pleasant talk and 
recollections, and 1 did not like to bring them to an end, so i re- 
sumed the conversation by a question. “ 1 never asked you, Alice, 
bow you got those roses from Cotiiswoode; that night— you remem- 
ber, three weeks ago?” 

” 1 have some more to-day. Miss Hester,” said Alice. 

” Have you? how did you get them? I hope the master of the 
house does not think that his flowers are stolen for us,” said 1, with 
a little indignation. ” You ought to take caie, Alice, that you do 
not compromise my father and me.” 

” There is no fear. Miss Flester,” said Alice, almost with a little 
bitterness. ” The young squire, your cousin, w-ould never believe 
your papa nor you to stoop out of your pride for a fancy like that, 
No, a friend brought me the flowers, for my own pleasqre — and if 
you’d rather not have them, I’ll take them back to my own room.” 

” Why, Alice, how foolish you are!” said 1, turning back in sur- 
prise to look at her. “ 1 wonder now why you should care tor my 
cousin. 1 don’t see how he can be anything to you,” 

” Kindness is a deal to me, dear — 1 never like to see a kind mean- 
ing despised,” said Alice. 

” You flatter me, Alice,” said 1, with some pique; “ you think it 
was ‘ a kinu meaning ’ that my cousin should propose to share his 
new inheritance wilh me; perhaps you think it is a kind meaning 
which moves Harry too?” 

” Oh, Miss Hester!” cried Alice, with a subdued groan, “don’t 
talk in that wayl it’s just as your papa did. You’ll break my 
heart!” 

“ Alice, you don’t know— no one knows, what papa has had to 
suffer,” said I. “ He gave her all his heart, and she took it because 
she was sorry for him! Never say that to me again; 1 would rather 
die— 1 would rather die, than be so bitterly deceived!” 

Again 1 heard the groaning sigh with which Alice had answered 
me, but this time she did not say anything. 1 was somewhat ex- 
cited. 1 did not now attempt to resume our talk again. 1 was an- 
noyed and disturbed to have my cousin’s “ genevous ” proposal 
brought before me this morning. I felt myself humiliated by it. 1 
felt as if it were a scoff at Harry to say that any one had entertained 


SG 


THE DATS OF HY LIFE. 


compassion foi liis bride; and it occurred to me that 1 would like 
to meet Edgar Southcote, perhaps, in a year or two, and show him 
how tar 1 was trum being such a one as he could pity. This idea 
possessed me immediatel}'’, and 1 said in the impulse of the moment 
— “ By and by, Alice, 1 shall have no objection to see my cousin ” 

Why or for what reason, 1 could not imagine, but I felt the hand 
of Alice tremble as she arranged (he last braids of my hair; and she 
answered me in the strangest, subdued, troubled voice, “ And when 
you know him. Miss Hester — when jmu know him — oh! be kind to 
the poor yoimg gentleman— if it were only for your mother’s sake.” 

” For my mother’s sake! are you crazy, Alice?” I said, turning^ 
round upon her with utter amazement, ‘‘ how is it possible that you 
can connect any mother with him?” 

Alice seemed greatly disconcerted at my sudden question. She 
retreated a step or two, as if I had made a real attack upon her, and 
said in a faltering apologetic voice, ” I’ll maybe never have to wait 
upon you, and talk to you another morning. Miss Hester — you 
oughtn’t to be hard on poor old Alice, to-day.” 

” Why should you never wait upon me, and talk to me again?” 
1 said. ” Yon are full of whims this ir orning, Alice! Shall 1 not 
find you here when we come back again? you do not mean that you 
will refuse to come to me?” 

” 1 never will leave your papa while he has need of me, dear,’^ 
said Alice, humbly. 

” Ah! he will permit you to stay with him — he will not permit 
me,” said 1, ” but papa will get strong, and then you must come 
1 wish you woidM not be mysterious, Alice. 1 wish you would for- 
bear these propl*etic warnings. Do you really think 1 have such a 
dreadful temper? am 1 to make everybody unhappy? or what do 
you mean?’' 

” It’s not that. Miss Hester,” said Alice, hurriedly retreating once 
more before me, and taking out of its folds the dress which i was 
about to put on. 

” Because if you think so,” 1 said, recovering fiom my moment- 
ary anger, ” you should not speak to me about it — you ought to 
wain the person most concerned.” 

I smiled at the thought — to warn Harry of my’- hereditary pride 
and my faulty character — to caution him how To deal with me! — 
with a proud assurance which warmed my veiy heart, I smiled at 
the thought. Yes! 1 was secure and blessed in my firm persuasion 
of w’hat 1 was to Harr3\ 1 was his lady'- of romance — his perfect 
ideal in woman — his first love — and 1 rejoiced in him because he 
thought so. It did not make me vain, but it made him the ideal 
lover, the true knight. 

But just then there came a message to the door that my father 
was in the dining room and wished to see me. 1 was fully dressed. 
Can a bride forget her ornaments? 1 thought they were very daz- 
zling as 1 saw them in my mirror. 1 could not help pausing lo look 
at myself, at the luster of my dress, and the glow of Harry’s brace- 
let on my arm— and 1 was about to go away so, to see my father; 
but Alice stopped me to wrap a large light shawl over my splendor 
— ” dear, he’ll feel it,” said Alice. 1 was struck with the delicacy 
which both Alice and Mr. Osborne, though they condemned him. 


THE DATS OF MY LIFE. 


87 

showed to my father and his feelings. 1 wrapped the shawl closer 
over my arms, and with a subdued step left my own room. 1 
wondered what he was thinking of. 1 wondered if this day recalled 
to him the freshness of those hopes which had been dead and with- 
ered for many a year— and when 1 went in at last, 1 went very soft- 
ly and humbly, like a timid child. 

He was pale and his eyes were hollow — he looked rather worse 
than usual to-day — and before 1 reached the door of the room, 1 had 
heard his slow measured footsteps pacing from window to window. 
He very seldom did this, and 1 knew it was a sign of some excite- 
ment and agitation in his mind. 1 was pleased it should be so— I 
was pleased that he did not send me away with his perfect cold self- 
possession, as if 1 had been a book or a picture. lie turned toward 
me when 1 went in, but did not look at me immediately; and when 
1 met his eye, 1 saw by his momentary glance of relief that he was 
glad not to see me in my full bridal dress. But (his was only for a 
moment — then he came toward me steadily, and with his own hands 
renroved the shawl. 1 drooped niy head under his full serious 
gaze. 1 felt the color burning on my cheek and the tears coming 
to my eyes. A few hours and I should be away from him. A few 
hours, and it might be i should never see him again. 

But my tears were checked by the touch of his cold firm hand 
upon my head. “ God bless you, Hester!” he said, slowly; — “ lu}' 
otvn life has been unfortunate and aimless. 1 think all my belter 
ambition died on my wedding-day. 1 gave myself over to the bit- 
terest feeling in the world, a sense of wrong and injury, while 1 
was still young and reckoned happy. You are a woman, Hester, 
you w'lll exact less, and win more. 1 would fain hope your life is 
to be happier than mine has been; but in any case, do not follow 
my example. 1 care not who blames or justifies me— but 1 have 
not made so much by my experiment that 1 should recommend it 
to my child; forgive when you are wronged — endure when you are 
misunderstood— if you can, at all times be content. 1 believe a 
woman finds it easier to attain these passive heroisms, and heaven 
knotvs 1 have profited little by my resistance to the mild fictions of 
ordinary life. Kemember, Hester, what I say— taA^e whose example 
you will to form your life by— only do not take mine.” 

1 can not tell how this strange repetition of the advice which 1 had 
already heard so often, overpowered me. Where was the oppor- 
tunity for me to follow my father’s example? I saw no circum- 
stances at all like his in the promise of my life. 1 could not sus- 
pect any compassion in Harry’s regard for me. It was pure, manly 
affection, and no feigning. 1 felt as if all this was a consiDiracy to 
drive me into the very suspiciousness which they sought to guard 
me against. VVHiat temper must 1 be of when everybody thought 
these cautions necessary! 1 felt humiliated and degraded by the 
constant counsel. The tears gathered in my eyes— large tears of 
mortification and bitterness— but my pride w^as roused at the same 
time, and they did not fall. 

All this while, when I was swallowing down as 1 best could the 
sob in my throat, my father looked at me steadily; then he sudden- 
ly threw the shawl over me again. ” 1 did not think, Hester, that 
you had been like your mother,” he said, in a voice so cold and 


83 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


rii^id that 1 saw at once it was the extreme control he exercised over 
s >nie violent and passionate emotion which alone could express it- 
self in these tones— and then he stooped, kissed my forehead ^rently,. 
and be^iiau once more with hasty and irregular steps t(T pace the 
room from end to end. 1 stood where he had left me for a moment,, 
and then 1 left the room and retired to my own. 

The sun was rising higher — the world was all astir— it was very 
near the time. 1 went back and sat down at my chamber-window 
to wait for the hour. Alice would not leave me— she remained in 
the room wandering about in a restless state of excitement, dressed 
and ready, but she did not speak, nor disturb my thoughts; an(t 
Harry had now arrived and w^as with rny father, she told me— but 
that made no impression on my abstracted mood. 

1 sat as in a dream, looking out upon all these familiar objects — 
there seemed to me a languid pause of expectation upon everything. 
1 myself, as still as if 1 had been in a trance, watched at the win- 
dow; but my senses were nervously quick and vivid. 1 thought I 
heard every step and movement below — and long before anybody 
else heard them, 1 felt that this was i\lr. Osborne and the young lady 
wdio was to be my bride-maid, wdio alighted at the outer door, and. 
came gayly talkiiig through the close— then 1 knew that the time of 
my reverie was over. AYlnn Alice left me to bring Miss Osborne 
upstairs, 1 tried to shake myself free from my lethargy — it required 
an effort, i felt liketlie enchanted lady in the tale, as it 1 had been 
fixed in that magic chair, and could have slept there for a hundred 
years. 

1 w\as abruptly disturbed by tlie entrance of Miss Osborne. She 
was older than I, and used to such things. She did not understand 
the intense secret excitement which 1 iiad reached to by this time. 
She came up to me in a flutter of silk, and lace, and ribbons. She 
laid cordial hands upon me and kissed me. Having neither mother, 
sisters, nor female friends, 1 was very shy of the salinations which 
are current among young ladies. 1 felt myself shrink a little from 
this kiss, and my color rose in spite of myself. Miss Osborne laughed 
and was astonished, and tried to encourage me — 

“ Don’t give way, there’s a dear. Poor little thing, how nervous 
yon look! Come, lean on me, love, and get ready. Where’s some 
gloves? and her handkerchief? She must keep up her heart now, 
must she n3t?” 

This was addressed in a half-satirical tone to Alice, and Alice, as 
well as myself, was considerably discomposed by the cool activity 
and gayely of our visitor. 

“ Dear, there is the carriage waiting for you at the door,” whis- 
pered Alice in my ear. ” Don’t tremble, darling— don’t now — it’ll 
be all over before you know.” 

And then 1 went down-stairs. 1 did not see eitlier Harry or Mr. 
Osborne, though I suppose they were both there; I saw only my 
father’s white, thin hand take mine £nd lead me away, and then 
we drove from the door. 1 recollect quite well seeing the people in 
the streets as we drove along, and being struck with a vague won- 
der whether this day was really the same as any other day to all 
those strangers. Then came the church, a confused and tremulous 
picture, and then a voice addressed us, and 1 had to say something. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


89 


aiQ(l so had Harry, and the scene suddenly cleared up, and became 
distinct tor fin instiint before me, when with a shock and start 1 
found my hand put into his hand; and by and by all was over, and 
we came away. 

And now we were again at home— at home — no longer home to 
me. And Alice with her silk gown and her great white muslin 
apron which i had braided for her, with the cap of lace and white 
j-ibbons thai 1 had made, and her little white shawl fastened with a 
brooch which Harry bad given her, and which contained some of 
my hair. Alice stood by my chair, sometimes forgetting that she 
had to attend to the party at table, and only remembering that she 
had to cry over, and comfort, and encourage me. Harry was in 
wild spirits, too joyous, almost flighty — like a man who has just 
achieved some wonderful triumph, but is scarcely quite jiware of 
it yet. His name was Southcote now, and my name was un- 
changed. My father sat at the head of the table, beside us; he was 
grave, but much calmer than he had been in the morning, and 1 
thought he watched Harry, and Harry avoided his eye in a manner 
which was strange to me. Mr. Osborne and his niece were a great 
relief to us. This event, which was so momentous to us, was noth- 
ing to them, but a little occasion of festivity to wliich they had to 
contribute a reasonable portion of good spirits. They came to re- 
joice with (hose who did rejoice, and they were certainly the most 
successful in the company. The table was gay with flowers, and 
there were the sweet, pale Cottiswoode roses, like friends from 
home, with dew upon their leaves, and their faint fragrance stealing 
through the room. 1 wondered once more where Alice had got 
them. For my own part, 1 was not now excited; 1 had fallen into 
a lull of composure, and was watching everybody. 1 remember the 
little speech Mr. Osborne made— full of real kindness, but with a 
little mock formality in it, as if a large party had been present— 
when he drunk our healths; and 1 remember the glow upon Harry’s 
face, and the gleam in his eyes, when he without anymockeiy 
stretched out his hand to him, and thanked him. Miss Osborne sat 
by me in her rustle and flutter of finery, whispering jokes and kind 
words into my ear; telling mo not to look so pale — not to blush so 
much— to compose myself— and a great many other young lady- 
like sayings; and 1 began to think that, though it was not very 
comfortable, it might be very good to be “ supported ” by Miss Os- 
borne, since 1 carefully strove to banish all trace of feeling from my 
face, that I might be saved from her criticisms. We sat at table an 
unmercifully long time; but though 1 could see Harry was as im- 
patient asl was, and though he was constantly looking at his watch, 
and whispering that it would soon be time to go away, no one else 
seemed disposed to release us. At length my father rose, and we all 
went into tlie drawing-room, where the table was covered with cards 
and envelopes. My father lifted one of the little packets, and took 
a note from it to show to me. It was addressed to my cousin, and 
very formally and politely informed him of what had taken place to- 
day. 

“ I thought it right to let him know— what do 3^11 think, Harry?” 
said my father, turning round to him somewhat sharply. 

Harry came up to see what it was. 


90 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


“ It is to Hester’s cousin, once a pretender for her hand. 1 ought 
to let him know it is disposed of, ought 1 not?” said my father; 
and he lifted the cover, which was addressed to ” Edgar Soulhcote^ 
Esq., Cottis'woode.” 

My father was looking full at him, and 1 saw once more that 
buruing flush rise to Harry’s hair, and cover his whole face. Their 
e3’-es met — 1 do not know, and have never known, what was in that 
glance — but Harry never spoke; he turned to me immediately, and ^ 
look my hand, and said hoarsely, with an extraordinary suppressed 
emotii)n— 

” Hester— my wife! Hester — it is time to go away.” 

1 thought he rather wished to draw me from my father’s side, td 
' keep me from much conversation with him; but he looked up again 
at me with recovered composure, and turned boldly to my father. 

“ All this only agitates and distiesses her,” he said, holding out 
his hand; ‘‘ let me take her away — it is our time.” 

Mv father slowly extended his hand to him. 

” Take her away,” he said; ” she is yours, and 1 do not dispute 
with you the triumph you have gained. Hester, my love, go and 
get ready — i will detain you no longer. Osborne, take leave of her 
—she is going away.” 

Then Mr. Osborne came forward and took both my hands and 
looked into my face; 1 was surprised to see that a tear twinkled in 
his sunny brijrht gray eye. 

” So you are going away,” he said. ‘‘ Well, it is the course of 
nature; but Cambridge will be all the duller, Hester, when you are 
not to be met with in the streets. Good-bye, my dear child! 1 
wished for this, but it costs me a pang notwithstanding. Good-bye, 
Hester! and don’t let anything persuade you to be offended with 
ydur old friend.” 

With an old-fashioned graceful courtesy he kissed my hand. 1 
think 1 never felt so strong a momentary impulse to ciing to any 
one as at that time 1 did cling to him. He said it grieved him that 
1 should go away: but, alas! there was no tear tor me in my father’s 
thoughtful eye. I had to restrain whatever 1 felt; my eyes were 
blinded with tears; but Miss Osboine rustled foiward to support 
me and give me her arm upstairs, and 1 would not call forth her 
commonplace condolences. Should 1 not even have ten minutes 
with Alice, all by ourselves? 

But Alice contrived that we should be alone, and as 1 changed my 
dress, wept over me. 

” The house will be desolate— desolate, darling,” said Alice, ” but 
I see nothing but happiness for you. It makes my heart light to 
think on what’s before you. He’s, a noble young gentleman. Miss 
Hester— 1 never saw one was equal to him. How, darling, you’re 
ready — and here’s the picture, my sweet young lady’s sweet face, 
to be your counselor, my own child; and blessing and prosperity 
and joy be with you! Farewell, farewell!— no. I’ll not cry, 1 won’t 
then! i’ll not shed tears on the threshold the bride steps over — and 
there’s himself waiting for j’-oii.” 

"i es, there he was, without the door, standing w’aiting for my 
coming forth. 1 came out of my pretty room/ the bo\ver of my 
youth, and gave my husband my hand. Still my e^^es were blind 


THE DATS or MY LIFE. 


91 


'Willi tears, but 1 did not shed them, and in the close was rav father, 
wuilking quickly up and down, waiting to take leave ot me. He 
took me in his arms for a moment, Kissed my forehead again — said 
once more — 

“ God bless you, my love— God bless my dear child!” and then 
put my hand again in Harry’s. 

1 was lifted into the carriage — 1 caught a last glimpse of the face 
of Alice, struggling with tears, and smiling; and then 1 fell into a 
great fit of weeping — 1 could control myself no longer. Hariy did 
not blame me; he said 1 had been a hero, and soothed and calmed 
and comforted me, with some bright moisture in his own eyes — and 
1 awoke to remember him, and think of myself no longer; and this 
was how 1 left my home. 


•0 


BOOK 11. 


THE FIRST DAY. 

It is rather difficult for a young girl, after all her solemn and 
awful anticipations ot the wonderful event ot her marriage, to find 
after it is over that she is precisely the same person as she w^as be- 
fore— that instead of the sudden elevation, the gravity, and de- 
corum, and stateliness of character wdiich 'would become this 
maturer stage^of her existence, she has brought all her girlish faults 
with her, all lier 5 mulh and extravagance, and is in reality just as 
she was a few months ago, neither wiser, nor older, nor having 
greater command of herself, than when she was a young unwedded 
girl. After t became accustomed to Harry’s constant companion- 
ship, and got over the first awe of myself and my changed position, 
1 was extremely puzzled to find myself quite unchanged. No, I 
had not bidden a solemn adieu to my youth when 1 left my father’s 
house; I was r.s young as ever, as impulsive, as eager, as ready to 
enjoy or to be miserable. 1 could fancy, indeed, with all this nov- 
elty, and the gay foreign life around us, and Harry’s anxiety to 
please and amuse, and keep me happy — i who knew life only as it 
passed in our lonely drawinir-room and garden, or in the dull streets 
of Cambridge — that youth, instead of being ended, was only begin- 
ning for me. 

1 was in vigorous health, and had an adventurous spirit. Long 
rapid journeys had in them a strange exhilaration for me. 1 liked 
the idea of our rapid race over states and empires; the motion, and 
speed, and constant change made the great cliarm of our travel. 1 
did not care for museums and picture galleries; but 1 cared for a 
bright passing glimpse of an old picturesque town, a grand castle or 
cathedral; and though the road w^e traveled was a road which peo- 
ple call hackneycfl, and worn out, the resort of cockney tourists, 
-and all manner of book-makers — yet it w-as perfectly fresh to me. 

This day was in the early pait of October, chill, bracing, and sun- 


92 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


shiny. A very wearisome journey, on the day before, had brought 
us to an old German town, where there were neitlier tourists nor 
English; but old embattled walls, Gothic houses and churches dat- 
ing far back into those picturesque rude centuries, when they knew 
the art of building, whatever other arts they did not know. Young 
and light of heait as we were, our fatigue vanished with the night, 
and when we had taken our coffee and our hard leathery rolls, in 
the light, cold, carpetless salle of our inn, we went out arm in arm 
for one of our long rambles, with no cicerone to distuib our enjoy- 
ment. We were not model sight-seers — we did not find out what 
was to be admired beforehand, nor seek the lions— -we were only twa 
very young people much delighted with these novel scenes, and 
with each other, who w’ere in no mood to be critical. We delighted 
to lose ourselves in these quaint old streets— to trace their curious 
intricacies, to find out the noble vistas here and there, where the 
high houses stretched along in peaked and i^aried lines to the golden 
haze, in which there w’as some smoke and a great deal of sunsliine, 
and behind which lay the sky. AVe saw the churches, and admired 
and wondered at them, but our great fascination was in the streets, 
where everything savored of another laud and time; the peasant 
dress, the characteristic features, the strange tongue, which, except 
when Harry spoke it, was unintelligible to me, made all these streets 
animated pictures to my eager observation. 

1 was a very good walker, and not easily wearied, and Harry was 
only too eager to do everything I pleased. We came and went, en- 
joying everything — and 1 think our fresh 5 ’'oung English faces, our 
freedom, and vigor, and youthful happiness, attracted some wistful 
glances from under the toil-worn, sunburnt brows of these peas- 
ant people, about whom 1 was so curious. Our enjoyment was so 
frank and honest, that it pleased even the unenjoying bystanders, 
and all the young waiters at the inn, who shook their heads at my 
elaborately conned questions in German, and drove me desperate 
with the voluble and anxious explanations of which 1 could not 
understand a word, had now a French dictionary on the side table 
in the scdle, which some one was always studying for my especial 
benetit; and what with smiles and signs, and my English-French, 
and their newly acquired phrases, we managed to do a little con- 
versation sometimes— (hough whether I or my young attendants 
would have sounded most barbarous to a Parisian ear, I can not tell, 
though 1 dare say the palm would have been given to me. 

And though mV dress was quite plain, and we flattered ourselves 
that it was not easy to find out that this was our wedding tour, it 
was strange what a sympathetic consciousness every one seemed to 
have that 1 was a bride. TIk^ people were all so wonderfulh’- kind 
to us. We traveled in the simplest way without either maid or man 
— vve had nothing to limit or restrain us, no need to be at any cer- 
tain place by any certain day, no necessity to please any one’s con- 
venience but our own; so we rambled on through these old pict- 
uresque streets, the bright autumn day floating unnoted over our 
heads, and life running on with us in an enchanted stream. There 
was the chill of early winter in the air already"; and in those deep 
narrow lanes, where the paths looked like a deep cut through the 
houses, rather than a road, on each side of which they had been 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


93 

built, were parties of wood-sellers cboppini; up into lengths for fuel 
great branches and limbs of trees. Everybody seemed to be laying 
in Iheii winter stock— the streets resounded with the ringing of the 
hatchet, the German j(dves and gossip of the operators, and the 
hoarse rattle of the rope or chain by which the loaded bucket was 
drawn up to the highest story, the store-room of these antique 
houses. As we threaded the deep alleys arm-in-arm, catching 
alimpses of interiors and visions of homely housewifely, we caught 
m iny smiling and kindly glances— and 1 do not doubt that many a 
browm little woman called from the door to her mother when she 
saw us coming, that here were the jmung Englishers again — for we 
had store of ureutzers and zwanzigers, and these small people very 
soon found it out. 

We had just emerged upon one of the principal streets, when 
Harry uttered a surprised and impatient exclamation, and turned 
me hastily round again, to go in another direction. “ What is the 
matter?” cried 1, in alarm. “ Hothing,” he said quietly, “ only a 
great bore whom I knew when 1 was last in Germany, llere, Hes- 
ter. let’s avoid him if we can.” 

We turned up a steep street leading to one of the gates of the 
town, and Harry hurried me along at a great pace. ” We are run- 
ning away,” said 1 laughing, and out of breath. ‘‘ You are a true 
Englishman, Harry— you flee before a bore when you would face 
an enemy; who is this formidable stranger?” 

” He is a professor at Bonn,” said Harry, in a disturbed and 
uneasy tone. ” 1 was there some time, you know — and knew him 
pretty well; but if he finds us out here, we shall never get rid of 
liim, unless we leave the towm in desperation. Come, Hester, a race 
for it; you are not loo old or loo sedate for that. An army of bores 
would conquer with a look, like Caesar— nothing could stand be- 
fore them. Come, Hester!” 

We ran across the bridge of planks, which stretched over the 
peaceful moat, now a garden of rich verdure, full of tobacco plants 
and plum-trees, from the Thiergartner Thor. Then we continued 
our ramble without the walls. At a little distance was a peaceful 
old church-yard, where some great people were lying, and where 
many unknown people slept very quietly with love-wreaths and 
scattered flow'ers over their hurnble tombstones. Some one had 
been laid down in that quiet bed even now, and we two, in our 
youth and flush of happiness, stood by, and saw the flowers show- 
ered down in handfuls and basketfuls upon the last inclosure of 
humanity. The rude earth was not thrown in till this sweet bright 
coverlet lay thick and soft upon the buried one— buried in flowers. 
AVe came away very softly from this scene— it touched our hearts, 
and awed us with a sense of the uncertain tenure of our great hap- 
piness. We clung close to each other, and went on with subdued 
steps saying nothing; and there on our way, at regular inttrvals, 
were those rude frames of ruasonry, inclosing each its piece of 
solemn sculpture, its groups of Jews and Romans looking on, and 
its one grand central figure, thorn-crowned and bearing the cross. 

1 remember the strange emotion which crept upon me "as we went 
along this sunny road. 1 had heard of the great sorrows of life, 
with the hearing of the ear, but 1 knew them not— and it struck me 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


D4 

with a dull and strange wonder to see this representation of the mor- 
tal agony which purchased life and hope and comfort for this latter 
world. 1 shrunk closer to my husband and clasped his aim, and 
lurned my eyes from those daik and antique pictures. 1 knew not 
Him who stooped under His tremendous burden, in this sublime 
and voluntary anguish. 1 w^as awe-struck at the thought, but I 
turned away from it. 1 was glad to talk again of what we had been 
seeing, of where we were to go next. We were going back to our 
hotel in the first place— and as we returned by another gate, 1 woke 
once more to amusement, w^hen 1 saw how jealously Harry looked 
about, to see if his bore wms still in our way. 

And as it happened, when w'e bad almost reached our inn, and 
turned a sharp corner on our wmy to it, we suddenly met this 
dreaded stranger face to face; there was no escaping then; after a 
moment’s pause, he rushed upon Harry with the w’armest salutations, 
addressed him in very deliberate and laborious English by his pres- 
ent name, which he called Southcnte, and seemed quite to claim the 
standing of an old friend. 

I was amused, yet 1 w’as annoyed, at Harry’s appearance and 
manner. He was more than constrained, he w’as embarrassed, one 
moment cordial, the other cold and repellant — and though he sub- 
mitted to an aflectionate greeting himself, it was in the proudest 
and briefest manner in the world that he introduced me. My new 
acquaintance was a middle-aged gentleman, abundantly bearded, 
with an immense cloak over his arm, and an odor of cigars 
about his wdiole person — but that odor of cigars was in the 
very atmosphere — 1 am sorry to confess that even Hatrj^ had it — 
and the professor had bright twinkling sensible eyes, and his face, 
though it was large and sallow', was good-humored and pleasant, 
so much as you could see of it, from its forest of hair. He did not 
look at all like a bore, and be spoke very good slow English, and 1 
was surprised at Harry’s dislike of him. He asked where we were 
living, and with a very bad grace Harry told him; then he volun- 
teered to call on us. 1 had to answer myself that we should be 
glad to see.him, for Harry did not say a word; and then he apolo- 
gized for some immediate engagement he had, and went awa3^ 

“ He does not seem a bore,” saidl, ” why did you run away from 
him, Harry? and if you only give him time enough, he speaks very 
good English. It is pleasant to hear some one speaking English. 
1 hope he will come to-night.” 

‘‘Oh inconsistent womankind!” said Harry, hiding a look of 
great annoyance under a smile, ” how long is it since jmu told me 
that you liked to be isolated from all the world, and that it was 
very pleasant for two people to have a language all to themselves.” 

‘‘ That w'as a week ago,” 1 said — ” and 1 like it still, and yet 1 
like to hear somebody speak English; wdiy do you dislike him? I 
think he looks very pleasant fur a German. You ought to be glad 
to have some one else to speak to than alw’ays me.” 

” Do you judge by yourself?” said Harry smiling; ‘‘ as for me, 
Hester, 1 aui no more tired of our tete-d-teie i\\?in 1 was the day we 
left Gambridge— so pray be thankful on your own account and not 
on mine.” 

” Are you vexed. Hairy?” a?ked 1. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


95 


“ I am annoyed to have this presuminc; intruder thrust upon us/* 
said Harry. “ i know he is not easily discouraged, and 1 did know 
him very well, and went 1o his house, so" that 1 should not 
like quite to be rude to him; and loreiguers are so ignorant of our 
English habits — in England, your friend would understand that 
people who have only been three weeks married, prefer their own 
society to anybody else’s; but everything is so different here.” 

“ Perhaps he does not know how short a time it is,” said I, “ but 
he called you Southcote, Hairy; did you write to him, or how does 
he know^?” 

” Oh! from the papeis, of course,” said Harry, hurriedly, ” you 
know what linguists these Germans are, and how they like to show 
their proficiency in our language: and, of course, there are lots of 
English fellows in Bonn; and wnere there are English, there is 
generally a ‘ Times.’ Why, the Herr Professor has become quite a 
hero, Hester; come in and dine, and forget that our solitude has 
been disturbed; what a bloom you have got— I think they will vote 
me thanks when 1 take you home.” 

So speaking, Harry hastened me in to arrange my dress. 1 could 
not understand bis embarrassment, his perplexity, his dislike of the 
stranger. Why receive him less cordially than he had been used to 
do? why introduce him to me so stiffly? a person who knew so 
much about him, that he w^as even aware of his change of name 
though he did not seem equally aware of his marriage. It was very 
odd altogether — my curiosity was piqued, and 1 thick 1 should have 
been very much disappointed if the stranger had not come that 
night. 

'\V'e had another long ramble after dinner— tor our hotel apart- 
ments, great gaunt rooms, with rows of many windows, and scant}' 
scattered morsels of furniture, were not very attractive— and when 
we finally came in again 1 was very tired. Harry wrapped my 
shawl round me, had a crackling, explosive wood fire lighted in the 
stove, made me rest upon the sofa, and finally told me that he would 
“ take a turn ” tor ten minutes and have a cigar. 1 was a little 
disappointed — he seldom did it, and I did not like to be without 
him, even for ten minutes; however 1 w'as reasonable, and let him 
go away. 

When he was gone, 1 lay quite still in the great darkening room; 
there were five windows in it, parallel lines of dull light coming in 
over the high steep root of a house opposite, where there were halt 
a dozen stories of attic window's, like a flight of steps upon the 
giddy incline of those red-mossed tiles. The whole five only made 
the twilight visible, and disclosed in shadow the parallel lines of 
darknessln the spaces between them; and the great green porcelain 
stove near which 1 lay, gave no light, but only startling reports of 
sound to the vacant solitary apartment. 1 was glad to hear the 
crackling of the w'ood— it was ” company ” to me — and 1 began to 
think over Alice’s last letter, and its consolatory assurance that my 
father was well. He wrote himself, but his letters said nothing of 
his health, and 1 W'as very glad of the odd upside-down epistle of 
Alice, which told me plainly in so many w'ords what 1 wanted to 
know. In another w'eek were were to go home, but Harry had said 
nothing ye* of where w’e were to go to; he had received no letter 


96 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


from Mr. Osborne about the house, and 1 concluded we would go 
first to Cambridge, and there find a place for ourselves. 

It brought the color to my cheek to think of going home with 
Harry, and taking my husband with me to the dwelling of iny 
youth. 1 was shy of my father and Alice, under my new circum- 
stances. If 1 had the first meeting over, 1 did not think 1 Rould 
care for the rest— but the first meeting was a very embarrassing 
thought, i was occupying myself with boding of these pleasant 
troubles, when 1 heard voices approaching the door; the Herr Pro- 
lessor’s solemn English, and Harry’s tones, franker and less embar- 
lassed than before. I got up hastily, and they entered; the stranger 
came and took a seat by me; he began to tell me he had once been 
in London, and what a wonderful place he thought it; his manner 
of speaking w'as amusing to me— it was very slow, as if every word 
had to be done as he went on — but it was very good English not- 
withstanding, and not merely done into English words. And the 
matter was very good, sprightly and sensible; and 1 was very much 
amused by his odd observation upon our habits, and the strange 
twist the mo>t familiar things acquired when looked at through his 
foreign spectacles. He had a great deal of quiet humor, and made 
quaint grave remarks, at which it was very hard to keep one’s 
gravity. 1 thought he was the last j^erson in the w^orld wdiom any- 
one could call a bore. 

All this time Harry sat nervous and restless, with a flush upon his 
face, taking little pait in the conversation; but watching the very 
lips of the stranger, as it seemed to mie, to perceive the words they 
formed before he uttered them. 1 was very anxious lliat he should 
speak rather of Harry than of London. 1 should have liked so 
much to hear if he was very popular among his companions, and 
very clever as a student; but when I saw how nervous and fidgety 
Harry was, 1 did not like to ask, and sat in discomfort and si range 
watchfulness, my attention roused to every word the professor said. 
1 could not perceive that he said anything of importance, but 1 really 
was very much disturbed and troubled by the look of Harry. 

When suddenly the stranger turned round and began to speak to 
him in German. Why in German? when he couUr speak English 
perfectly Avell, and evidently liked to exhibit his acquirements; this 
put the climax to my astonishment— and it did more tiian that — it 
woke a vague pang in my heart, unknown before, which 1 suppose 
was that bitter thing called jealousy; had Harry gone out on pur- 
pose to meet and warn him; was it at Harr3’^’s request, and that 1 
might not understand, that they spoKe in German? A sudden sus- 
piciousness sprung up within me— was there, indeed, some secret 
which Harry did not want me to know? Iwdio would have counted 
it the greatest hardship in the world to have anything to conceal 
from him. 

I sunk into sudden and immediate silence— 1 watched Harry. 1 
was mortified, grieved, humiliated— 1 could have le.G the room and 
gone away somewhere to cry by myself: but this would only make 
matters worse, and 1 did not wish Harry to think me unreasonable 
or exacting. But he saw that i grew very pale, he saw the tears in 
my eyes, and how firmly my hands clasped each other. He sud- 
denly said something in English— the stranger answered, and this 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 97 

cause ot tllstress to me was crone; but now llio professor spoke of 
Iiaving visited Harry iu Englaud. 

“And thftt house you were speaking of,” said Hie German, 
“ that, ah! 1 know not your names— did you never go to live in it 
again?” 

“ No, no, 1 have never been there,” said Harry, hastily, “ a place 
1 was thinking of — of settling in, Hester,” he explained to me in a 
very timid wa}^ “ When you are next in England you must see a 
true English home, professor— no bachelor’s quarters now.” 

“ Ah, my jmiing friend, 1 have not forgot what you did say about 
ia helle cousine," said the professor, with a smile "at me. 

1 sat as still as if 1 had been made of stone. 1 saw Harry’s face 
flush with a violent color; but no color came to my cheek— 1 felt 
cold, rigid, desolate. 1 shivered over all my frame with the chill at 
my heart. For he had said so often that 1 was the only one who had 
ever entered his heart — that he had known no love of any Rind till 
he knew me. Alas! were these all vain words — the common deceits 
of the world — and What was 1 to believe or trust in, if my faith 
failed in Harry? I tried to believe it was some foolish jest, but 
though 1 might have persuaded myself so from the unconscious 
smile of the professor, there was guilt on fiarry’s brow. 1 did not 
cliange my position in the slightest degree. ] sat very still, scarcely 
drawing my breath. The momentary pause that followed was an 
age to me. While the silence lasted, 1 had already tried to persuade 
myself that whatever might have been, Harry loved me only now — 
but 1 could not do it— 1 was sick to my very heart. 

1 heard him dash into conversation again, into talk upon general 
subjects, vague and uninteresting. 1 listened to h all with the 
most absorbing interest, to find something more on this one point if 
1 could. Then, by and by, the stranger went away. 1 bade him 
good-night mechanically, and sat still, hearing the wood crackling 
in the stove, and Harry’s footsteps as he returned from the door. Ho 
came in, and sat down beside me on the sofa. He took my cold 
hand and clasped it between his. He said, “ Hester— Hester— Hes- 
ter!” every time more tenderly, till 1 could bear it no longer, and 
burst into tears. 

“ Oh, Harry! you might have told me.” 1 exclaimed passionate- 
ly; “ you might have said that you cared for some one else before 
y'ou cared for me!” 

“ It would have been false if 1 had said so, Hester,” he answered 
me in a very low earnest tone. 

“ Oh, Harry, Harry! do not deceive me now,” 1 said, making a 
great effort to keep down a sob. 

He drew me close to him, and made me lean upon his shoulder. 
“ In this 1 never have, and never will, deceive you,” he said, bend- 
ing over me — “ 1 never knew what love was till 1 knew you, Hes- 
ter. AY hat I say is true. Sec— I have no fear that you can find me 
out in a moment’s inconstancy. IMy thoughts have never wandered 
from you since 1 saw you first, and before I saw yon 1 was desolate 
and loved no one. Y’ou believe me?” 

Could 1 refuse to believe him? 1 clung to him and cried, but my 
tears were not bitter any more. 1 could believe him surely, better 
4 


98 


THE HAYS OF HY LIFE. 


than a hundred strangers; but still 1 lifted my head and said, “ Wha£ 
did the professor mean?” 

“I knew he would make mischief, this meddling fellow,” said 
Harry. ” Hester! do not distrust me, at least on this point, when 1 
say 1 can not tell you yet what he means. 1 have a confession to 
make, and a story to tell— it is so, indeed, 1 can not deny it. But 
wait till we get to England— wait till we are at home; 3 ^ou will trust 
me for a few days longer? — say you will?” 

” 1 have trusted you implicitly in everything you have said and 
done until now,” said I, almost with a groan. 

He kissed my band with touching humility. ” lou have, Hester, 
1 know you have,” he said under Ids breath— but he said no more 
— not a word of explanation — not a single regret — not a hint of what 
1 was to look for when he told me his story — his story! what could 
it be? 

For some time we sat in silence, side by side, listening to the wind 
without, and to the roaring and crackling of the wood in the stove. 
We did not look at each other. For the first time we were embar- 
rassed and uneasy. We had no quarrel — no disagreement — but there 
was something between ub; something — one of those shadowy bar- 
riers that struck a sense of individual existence and separateness for 
the first time to our hearts. We were checked upon our course of 
cordial and perfect unity. W'e began an anxious endeavor to make 
conversation for each other — it did not flow freely as it had done, 
nor was this the charmed silence in which only last night we had 
been delighted to sit. The wind whistled drearily about the house, 
and rattled at the windows. ” 1 hope we shall have calm \veather 
to cross the channel,” said Plarry; and then we began to discuss 
how and when we were to go home. 

Yes — the charm of our rambling was gone; all my desire now 
was to get home to know what this confession was, which Harry 
had to make to me. It was not the confession 1 had dreaded — it 
was not that somebody else had ever been as dear to him as 1 was 
now— what could it be? He spoke of it no more, but left it to my 
imagination without a word. My imagination, puzzled and bewil- 
dered, could make nothing of the mystery — could he, in his early 
youth, have done something very wrong? No, it was impossible, 

1 could not credit that of Harry. 1 was entirely at fault — and 1- 
think before an hour was over 1 would gladly have undertaken to 
forgive him beforehand, and chase the nightmare awa 3 ^ But he 
did not seem able to forget it; it was a bigger nightmare to him 
than to me. Pie was very kind, very loving and tender; but there 
was a deprecation in his manner which troubled me exceedingly. 
How 1 longed now that this Dutch professor had never broken in 
upon our happy days! How annoyed I was at my own childish per- 
versity, my opposition to Harry because 1 thought he was not 
cordial to ihe stranger! What concern had 1 with the stranger? 
and he had repaid me by bringing the first blank into our joyous in- 
tercourse— the first secret between our hearts. 

Before the evening was spent, we were a little better. It made me 
miserable to see Harry looking unhappy and constrained. We 
tacitly avoided all reference which could touch upon this mystery, 
and arranged and rearranged our journey home, or ‘‘to England,’^ 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 99 

as we saili. 1 did not ask where we should go to, nor did he say— 
and so ended the first tedious evening ot our married life. 


TPfE SECOJSiD DAY. 

It was the middle of October, stormy, cloudy, a searching, chill, 
disconsolate day. It had been wet in* the morning, and the low- 
lands near Calais were flooded with the previous rains; everything 
on shore was as gloomy and uncomfortable as could be; and the 
decks of the little steamer were wet with sea water, as we stepped 
on board of her in the deceitful harbor of Calais, where the wild 
sea without was beyond our reach or ken. 

When we cleared the harbor and made our first wild plunge amid 
the raging lions without, 1 never will forget what a shock it gave 
me. Crossing these wild little straits on our way to the Continent 
had been my first voyage— this w'as only my second— and 1 thought 
these monstrous waves which rolled up to us, defiant and boastful 
like Goliath, were to swallow up in an instant our brave little 
David, the small stout straining sea-boat, which bore our lives and 
our hopes within a hair’s- breadth ot destruction — as 1 thought. 
“ Take the lady below, sir— she can’t be no worse nor ill there,” 
said a seaman pithily, as he rolled past us with a mop and bucket, 
with w’hich they vainly attempted to dry the flooded deck. 1 was 
so much worse than ill here, that 1 was drenched with the dashing 
of the sea; but the man did not know' with what a solemn expecta- 
tion 1 waited, looked to be devoured and ingulfed every moment 
by some invading wave. 

Yet in spite of all, we reached the opposite shore in safety, and 
stood once more upon English ground— then w'e rested for a little 
and changed our wet dresses, and Harry pressed and entreated me 
to take refreshment; 1 made an effort to please him, but he took 
nothing himself; he looked very much agitated, though he sup- 
pressed his feelings anxiously. For a few days we had greatly re- 
gained our former happy freedom, and almost forgot that anything 
had ever come between us. 1 arc sure it w^as not my fault that the 
feeling was revived to-day. 1 had made no allusion to what he 
was to tell me — 1 had even avoided speaking of the home to which 
we were going, lest he might think 1 was impatient for this secret 
— my mind was free, and I could forget it; but it lay on Harry’s 
conscience and he could not. 

I think the storm had pleased him while we W'ere on the water, 
lor it chimed in with his own excitement ; but wdien we landed — 
w'hen we had to rest and refresh ourselves, and there was an hour or 
two to wait for a train, my heart ached for Harry. He looked so 
restless, so agitated, so unhappy. 1 kept by him constantly, yet 1 
sometimes feared that 1 rather aggravated than soothed his emotion 
by any tenderness 1 showed him. He looked so grateful for it, 
that 1 felt almost injured by this thankfulness. He turned such 
w'isftul looks upon me loo, as if he doubted whether 1 ever would 
look upon him or speak to him as 1 did now, after this day. The 
importance he seemed to attach to it, gave his mystery a new weight 
in my ej'es. 1 had begun to grow familiar with it- -to think it must 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


100 

be nothing and despise it, but it was impossible to do that when 1 
5 aw the excitement under which Harry was laboring. AYhat could 
it be? Nay, if it was indeed something very bad he hud done in 
some former time — which was the most probable thing I could 
think of— that was nothing to me— that could never estrange us 
from each other. And when we set out again upon our journey, 
and rushed away with giant strides to Loudon, 1 pleased inyselt 
thinking how 1 would laugh at his fears when 1 really heard his 
story— iiow I would upbraid him for believing tnat anything could 
ever come between us— how 1 would charm him back into his old 
self with tenderer words than 1 had ever spoken jxt. We sat op- 
posite each other, yet our eyes very seldom met. He vvas cogitating 
in doubt and trouble. 1 was thinking of him very lovingly— how 
good he was— how strange that he ever could do wTong — how im- 
possible that either wrong or right should part him and me. My 
heart sw'elled wdien 1 recollected all his tender care of me — how, 
though 1 was his wife, 1 had never for a moment been divested of 
that delicate and reverent honor with which he surrounded me in 
ine days of our betrothal. 1 felt that 1 could trust to him as a child 
trusts, without even wishing to find out his secret ; and 1 rejoiced 
to thinii how soon 1 could dissipate the cloud that \vas over him,, 
when the crisis really came. 

We had another little interval of waiting in Jjondon, and then 
set out again for Cambridge, as 1 thought. It w^as now getting late, 
and. the day declined rapidly. Harry did not seem able to speak 
to me; he sat by my side, so that 1 could no longer see his face, and 
we traveled on in silence, rushing through the gathering darkness; 
every moment Harry’s excitement seemed to grow and increase 
He took my hand, and held it tight for a moment — then he released 
it to clasp and strain his ot^n together; sometimes he turned to me 
as if just on the point of making his confession, whatever that con- 
fession might be — but immediately repented and turned away again. 

1 did all 1 could to soothe him, but vainly as it seemed— and had 
it not been for my perfect conviction that 1 had but to hear this 
story, to convince him that nothing possible could stand between 
us, 1 scarcely could have endured that rapid and silent journey, 
full of expectation as it w^as. At length we stopped at a lit- 
tle unimportant station on the way. “We get out here, Hes- 
ter,” said Harry, in a stifled breathless voice, as he helped me to 
alight; his hand was burning as if with fever, and the light of I he 
lamps showed me the white cloud of excitement on his face. Out- 
side the station, a carriage was waiting for us. “ You have found a 
house then, Harry? — why did not you tell me?” 1 said, as he handed 
me into it. “ Did you mean it for a surprise?” “ Yes,” he said,, 
hoarsely; I saw he was not able to say any more. 1 was very sorry 
tor him. 1 took his hand, which was now cold, and warmed it be- 
tween my owm. 1 could not help remonstrating with him. 1 could 
not bear it any longer. 

“ Harry,” said 1, “ why are you so much troubled? have you no 
confidence at all in me? do you foi get what 1 am— your wife? 1 
can not think anything would disturb you so much, except something 
wrong — but is it my place to sit in judgment upon any wrong you 
may have done? It will be hard for me to believe it. " 1 would be- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


101 


lieve no one but yourself on such a subject— and whatever it is, it 
can make no ditlerence with me. Harry! don’t turn away from me 
— don’t let us be separated; you make me very anxious; yet 1 would 
rather not know what it is that troubles you so. 1 am not going 
home to be a punishment or a judgment upon you— you forget 1 
am your wife, Harry.” 

But Harry only groaned; it was remorse, compunction, that was 
in his heart. He repeated my last wmrds wildly, with passionate 
exaggerated tones of fondness. His angel, he called me; much 
troubled as 1 w’as, 1 smiled at the name— for 1 was honest enough to 
know that there was very little, even of the earthly angel, about 
me.. 

And so we drove on; the gliding silent motion of the carriage 
seemed very subdued and gentle after the rush of the railway— on 
through Clark silent hedgeless roads, over the wide level country, 
which stretched around us one vast dull plain under the shadow of 
the night. It was my owm country 1 saw— and 1 put out my hand 
from the carriage window to feel the fresh wind, which came over 
miles and miles of these broad flats, unbroken by any obstacle, 
^sot a hedgerow, scarcely a tree, and neither passenger upon the way 
nor human habitation, was to be seen in the darkness — notniug but 
the dark soil, the wide, wide indescribable distance, the fresh breeze 
and the dim sky. The very road we were on was a level straight- 
forward line, w'hich seemed to have no turnings, but to go blindly 
forward, uninterrupted, as if it w^ent to the end of the W’orld. Ail 
the charm which 1 used to feel in my native locality returned upon 
me; space, and breadth, and freedom almost infinite, was in this 
land which people called monotonous and dreary. My spirit rose, 
my heart beat high. 1 felt my breast expand to the fresh wind — 
but when 1 turned to Harry— Harry seemed quite unmoved by it; 
he was still buried in his own dark thoughts. 

The carriage was a private one, luxuriously fitted up, and 1 
thought the servants recognized him as servants recognize their mas- 
ter; but 1 had never been told that he was rich enough for this, and 
it joined with the greater mystery to puzzle me. When 1 looked 
out again, 1 began to think the way quite familiar to uiy eyes: that 
was not unlikely, being in Cambridgeshire~but now it grew 
strangely familiar, .even in the darkness. Could the house Harry 
had taken be near Cottisivoode?— my heart beat still louder at the 
tnought. 1 scarcely knew whether it pleased or vexed me; yet 1 
thought 1 should have pleasure in showing Edgar Southcote how 
independent of Jealousy or any mean feeling Harry’s wife could be. 
1 looked out eagerly, recognizing now a tree and now’^ a cottage— 
we were surely near the hamlet. Harry, too, stirred in his corner; 
1 thought he watched me, but 1 was full of old thoughts and did 
not speak to him. Yes! there w’ere the elm tree— the old avenue. 
Then 1 drew back in my seat with tears in my eyes; eager as 1 was, 
1 could not look out, when we were passing so near my own old 
home. 

The shadows of great trees were over us; but I leaned back in 
my corner, and did not note them. Yes! 1 remembered that the 
public road crossed the very end of that stately grand old avenue — 
how slowly we were passing it! how long the over-arching branches 


102 


THE DATS OF MY LIFE. 


shadowed the carriage! and the air grew closer, as if something in 
terrupted it very near. 1 dill not look up, a strange fascination 
overpowered me — a moment more, and the carriage wheeled round 
into an open space and stopped. Almost before they drew up, 
Harry leaped from my side. Then he came loiind, threw the door 
open, held out his arms to me to lift me out — how^ his arms trem- 
bled! how hot his breath came upon my cheek! 1 could scarcely 
recognize his hurried, trembling, agitated voice, “ Hester— welcome 
home!” 

Home! the great hall door stood open— the moon came out from 
behind a cloud to throw a momentary gleam upon the house. 
Home! 1 thrust him away, and sprung to the ground without his 
aid. He stood where 1 had left him, drawing back, following me 
with his eyes, and pale as marble. I stood alone gazing up st the 
sculptured emblems upon the door. In a moment, in a flood of 
<lespair and bitterness, the truth rushed upon me. 1 had been 
trapped and betrayed — deceived like a fool — and every one had 
known the snare but 1. 1 saw it all at a glance — I was his wife — 

his wu'fe! and he had brought me home. 

In that wild moment, 1 can not tell the impulses of frenzy which 
possessed me. To escape— to rush away from him, over the path- 
less, featureless country — throuj^h the darkness and the night— to 
be lost somewhere forever and forever, never to come to his knowl- 
edge more— to die upon this threshold and never enter it. It was 
vain ! 1 was roused to a sense of my true circumstances when 1 saw 

a baud of servants courlesying and gaping at me in the hall. My 
pride came to my aid, my very i^assion supported me. 1 went in 
with a firm deliberate step, bowing to them, and passed on to the 
room which had been our dining-parlor, and from which there came 
a glimmer of light. I had not looked toward him, but 1 heard his 
step folJowin" me. 1 entered the room — it was very bright and 
cheerful, welr-lighted, with a ruddy fire— and tea w^as upon the 
table. Tlie glow of warmth and comfort in it struck me with an in- 
dignant sense of my own sudden misery. He had put me without 
the pale of enjoyment, 1 thought, forever. 

1 did not take off my bonnet — 1 stood in the elow of the firelight, 
turning my face to him as he came eagerly up to me. 1 stopped 
hi.m as he began to speak. “ There is no need— ^no needl” said 1. 
“1 see your" mystery— pray do not speak to me— do not drive me 
mad to-night.” 

He turned away clasping his hands with a passionate exclama- 
tion-then he carne back; ” I deserve your reproaches, Hester, do 
not spare them; but think what you said to me not half an hour 
ago — you are my wife.” 

” Your wife— your wife — yes! there is the sting,” 1 said with a 
w ild outburst; ” his wdfe, and it is forever!” 

He went away blindly from me to the ether end of the room, and 
threw himselt down in a chair. I saw his suffering, but it did not 
move me. I thought of nothing but my owui wrong — a hard, cold, 
desperate indifference to every one else seemed to come upon me. i 
saw m 3 ’'S€if tricked, cheated, despised. Mr. Osborne, Alice, my 
father— strange and impossible though the conjunction was — I al 
most thought 1 saw them together, smiling at me. 1 could liave 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


103 


gnashed my teeth when 1 thought how conscious every one else wua 
—how miserably blind was 1. 1 could have thrown myself on Ihe 

floor and dashed my hot brow against the hearth— his hearth— his 
home — his household sanctuary. But I rejected and hated it — it 
was not mine. 

I can not tell how long I stood thus, he sitting far apart Irom me 
saying nothing— it might, have been hours— it might have been only 
moments— 1 can not tell. 1 think it was the falling of some ashes 
from the tire upon the hearth wdrich roused me; the trivial common 
sound brought a strange awakening to my misery. 1 went and rang 
the bell; as 1 did so, he looked up at me wistfully. “ It is only for 
some one to show me my room,” 1 said. ” May not 1 do that, 
Hester?” he asked, i think, perhaps, though it is a strange un- 
generous thing to say so, that had he been less overpowered, less de- 
jected, bad he boldly entered upon the subject then, and compelled 
me to go over it, step by step, 1 would not have been so bitter 
against him; but he was disarmed and broken down, less by my re- 
proaches than by his own feeling of guilt. 

” Thank you, 1 shall prefer a servant,” said 1, and when the 
woman came, 1 followed her upstairs. 8he led me to my own old 
room, the last room 1 had left when we w'ent away from Cottis- 
woode. My first glance at it show'Cvl me that it was furnished with 
the greatest care and elegance, and the door of a little room adjoin- 
ing, which had been a lumber room in our time, was open, and 
from it came a glimpse of firelight; in the bedchamber, loo, there 
was a fire, and everything in it looked so bright, so pure and cheer- 
ful, that 1 could not glance anywhere without an aggravation of 
bititerness —to place me here, was like placing a revolted and defy- 
ing spirit in some peaceful bower of heaven. 

The servant who conducted me was a fresh young country woman, 
five or six years my senior. In the preoccupation of my own 
thoughts, 1 scarcely looked at her, but she seemed to linger as if for 
a recognition; at last she spoke. ” I’m Amy Whitehead, please 
miss— "madam,” she said, confused and blushing, ” and my old uncle, 
ma’am, that was at the Hall afore, he’s been waiting, please, ever 
since we heard ihe news, to know when you W'as coming home.” 

“Another time— another lime, Arny,” said 1, hurriedly, half- 
stifled with the sobs which 1 could restrain no longer. “ Teli him 
1 remember him very well — and you too; but I am latigued and 
want rest to-niglit; and tell your master, Amy, that 1 am about to 
go to rest, and will not come‘down-stairs again.” 

She went away, looking surprised and a little disconcerted. 1 
dare say this was strangely unlike Amy’s simple notions of the home- 
coming of a bride. When 1 was alone, 1 went to the glass and 
looked in my own face. 1 was very pale, jaded, and ivretclied-look- 
ing; but it w’as myself— still myself and no other. This half hour’s 
misery had made no volcanic sigu upon my face. 1 loosed off my 
bonnet slowly, and all my wrappers- -those shawls which he had 
arranged round me so carefully— 1 flung them on the floor where I 
stood. 1 did not know how to give some vent, to seek some expres- 
sion for my wretchedness. It pressed upon my heart and brain, 
with a close and terrible pressure; a great physical shock would 


104 


THE DAYS OF MY" LIFE. 


have been a relief to me. 1 could have leaped over a precipice, or 
plunged into a river for ease to my crovpdiug, thronging tlioughts. 

Then 1 threw myself down in a chair by the fire, and tried to be 
still. 1 could not be still. 1 rose and w^andered through the rooms; 
they were furnished with the most careful regard to all my tastes 
and preferences. 1 saw that, but when I saw it, it oiil.y increased 
my bitterness; the dressing-room within, the little happy confidential 
room, scared me away with its look of home and comfort. At last, 
1 opened a window and looked out upon the night; the same jas- 
mine dropped its leaflets on the window-sill, the same moaning 
wandering winds came upon my face, as those 1 had known of old. 
It had begun to rain, and 1 listened to the heavy drops falling 
among the scanty autumn foliage, and bearing down with them in 
their progress showers of yeilow leaves; and now and then the fitful 
blast dashed the rain into my lace, as 1 looked out upon the dark 
trees— the dark indistinct country— the vast world of darkness and 
space before me. The chill air and the rain refreshed me— 1 leaned 
far out that the shower might beat upon my head, and then I 
thought 1 was able to return to my seat and to be calm. 

Yes! 1 was in C’oltisw'oode. I was Edgar Southcote’s wife; at 
this thought my heart burned. 1 can not express the fiery glow of 
pain which overpowered me by any other words. Since I entered 
this fatal house, 1 seemed to have lost sight of Harry. Harry my 
teu.ler wooer, my loving bridegroom, tlie nearest and dearest 3t all 
who were near and dear to me, had disappeared like a dream. In 
his place stood my scorned and rejected cousin, he whose com- 
passion had sought me out to make amends to me for a lost inheri- 
tance. A hundred circumstances came upon my mind now to direct 
suspicion to him; his desire to take our name, oh! heaven protect 
us! my name! it was no suggestion of his love— it was a mean and 
paltiy lie! And he had succeeded — there was the sting — and my 
father’s words came back upon me with a strange significance, but 
only to place my father among the other conspirators against my 
peace. The bond of onr marriage lay upon oiii hearts and souls; 
forever and forever — forever and forever; not even in thought or 
lor a moment could 1 deliver myself from this bondage— even when 
I died 1 would belong to him — and the very name upon my grave- 
stone would be that of Edgar Southcote’s wife. 

1 was pacing up and dowm steadily, holding my hands clasped to- 
gether. 1 could not be still and think of these things. 1 could not 
remember with composure where 1 was, and how 1 had been brought 
here. 1 went to the window again, and as I raised my hand to my 
face, 1 felt upon my neck the little chain with my mother’s minia- 
ture— with a wild access of indignation 1 snatched it oft; now 1 
understood why it was that they connected him with my mother — 
that they found in my circumstances some resemblance* to those in 
my father’s shipwrecked life, 1 did not dash it now out of my 
hand as 1 was minded to do; with trembling fingers 1 put it awa}", 
out ot my reach, where the placid smile of that mild face could 
not drive me wild again. What could she or such as she understand 
of this misery which 1 was enduring now^? 

At this mo*ment some one knocked lightly at the door. 1 went at 
once and opened it— it was himself. 1 looked full at him to find 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


105 

out Ilow 1 coul(l have been decelveti. This was not m}^ Harry— 
Harry was nothing but an ideal, and he was gone — this was the boy, 
my cousin, vtdiom 1 had met upon the road seven years ago, wiih 
his stooping figure and his timid step. Once more in my injured 
and passionate strength, lull of bitter resentment and proud scorn, 
1 stood firm by Edgar Southcote— and he humbled, downcast, self- 
reproachtul, stood like a culprit before me. 

“ 3lay 1 come in, Hester?” he asked. 

1 gave way to him m a moment— but. 1 could not do it without a 
bitter word. ” You are the master of the house— I have no right to 
admit or to exclude any one here.” 

He held up his hands with a wild deprecating gesture. “ Am 1 
not sutilciently punished?” he said. ” If 1 was wrong— criminal- 
think of what the circumstances w^ere, Hestei— can your heart find 
no excuse for me? and see what my punishment is already. In- 
stead of the na»ural joy which a man looks tor when he carries his 
bride home. 1 have anticipated this day with terror— and my fears 
are more than realized. Have I become a different person from him 
to whom you said this very night, ‘ 1 am your wdft?’ Am not 1 the 
same man you promised your heart and love to? the same with 
whom you left your father’s house? Htster! 1 have deceived you— 
1 do not try to make my fault less. Say it was a deliberate pre- 
meditated fault— 1 do not deny it— but 1 am not changed. Con- 
demn it, but be merciful to me.’"’ 

“No, you are not the same man,” I answered, “you are not 
Harry— you are Edgar Southcote— 1 never gave either hand or heart 
to you; 1 gave them to one who has not capable of fraud— who 
knew nothing of a he- he is gone and dead, and i will never find 
him more either in heaven or earth; you have killed my Harry, you 
have killed my heart within me. 1 never molested you — 1 never 
appealed to you for pity — 1 had forgotten Cottiswoode, it was noth- 
ing to me. TV hy did you come with your false compassion to steal 
away my hopes, and my heart, and my 3 ^outh?” 

“ Compassion, Hester? where is there any compassion in the 
matter?” he exclaimed; “ you show none to me.” 

“ No — 1 only want justice,” said 1; “ oh! I know you have been 
generous — 1 know it w^as a kind meaning, a charitable impulse, to 
restore to me my father's. land. Do not let us speaR of it, it 1 am 
to keep my reason now'; 1 fancied such a thing could never hap- 
pen to me. 1 did not think 1 could have been so humiliated. 1 
trusted you— 1 trusted you with all my heart! Will you let me stay 
here, and leave me to myself? 1 w’ant to collect myself to think of 
w'hat is all over and past, and of w^hat remains ” 

“ What remains? what will you do, Hester?” he cried, growing- 
very pale. 

But 1 could not tell— 1 looked round rre with a dreary desolate 
search for something to support me. 1 had no one to flee to— not 
one in all the world. What a change since j'esterday -since this 
morning— when i had everything in having him! 

1 remember that he came to me and pissed my hand— that he bent 
over it, and entreated me to forgive him; that 1 turned away, and 
would not look at him, nor listen, with a hard and heartless obda- 


106 THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 

Tacy, and that then he said, “ Good-night— good-night!” and slowly 
went away. 

When 1 w-as alone, my desolation, my wretchedness, my solitude 
hurst upon me in an agony — he had gone away — he had granted my 
petition— 1 w’as alonef 1 stood for a long time quite silent, where 
lie had left me— then 1 w’ent back to my chair. 1 fancied the ver}' 
foundations of the earth were breaking up; 1 had no longer any one 
to trust to; every one had deceived me, every creature 1 loved or 
cared for was inlhe conspiracy. Even my father’s suspicions must 
have come to certainty before 1 left him — yet nobody had warned 
me. Oh! it was cruel! cruel! for thus it came about that 1 had no 
one to go to in my distress, no one to seek refuge wdth— that my 
impulse was to turn away from all my friends, to seek a dreary 
shelter in this loneliness, w^hich struck to my heart to night, with 
such a terrible pang. What was 1 to do? 

I could not think of that— my mind went back and back agals. 
to what was past. 1 began to follow out the evidences, the certain- 
ties which made it clear to Alice, and to my father, and which 
ought to have made it clear to me. 1 had no wish to return to 
them. 1 was indifferent to everything; I only felt that in a moment 
a bitter antagonism had sprung up between him and me — that, 
according to our love, would be our enmity and opposition, and that 
even in our variance and strife, and with this unforgiven wrong be- 
tween us, w'e were bound to each other forever. 

All this night, when 1 thought to have been so happy, I sat 
alone in that chair. At last, when it grew late, and the fire burned 
low, and 1 felt the chill of the night, my fatigue overpow^ered me, 
and 1 fell asleep. My dreams were of vague distress and tribula- 
tion. misfortune and misery, which 1 could not comprehend; but 
W'hen 1 awoke, 1 found myself laid on the bed, caretully wrapped 
up, tliough still dressed, and the gray light of dawn coming in 
llirough the windows. I could not recollect mj^self for the mo- 
ment, nor how 1 had come to be here; but when 1 lifted my head, 1 
saw him seated wdiere 1 had seated myself last night, bending over a 
bright fire, with his arms supporting his head. When he heard me 
stir, he looked up; he had not been sleeping to-night, although 1 
had —and then 1 recollected all that had passed, and that it was 
lie who must have lifted me here, and covered me so carefully. 
His face was pale now. and his eyes dark and heavy; beseemed 
almost as listless and indifferent as i was— for though he looked up, 
he made no advance to me. 

1 sprung from my rest, and tliiew ofi: from me the shawls 1 had 
been wrapped in— then he rose acid offered me his chair. 1 did 
not take it— we stood looking at each other; then he took my baud 
and held it, and looked at me wistfully. 1 said a cold “ Good- 
mcrning,” and turned my head away. When 1 did that, he dropped 
my hand, and withdrew from me a little— and then lie seemed to 
make an eliort to command himself; and spoke to me in a voice 
which 1 scarcely recognized— so clear it was, and calm. Ah! he 
could be something else than an ardent, or a penitent lover; the 
voice of the man was new to me. 1 looked up at him instantly, 
with a respect which 1 could not help; hut we had entered upon 
another day. These days of my life crowded on each other —and 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 107 

to this cliill, real dawn, and not to the wild, passionate night which, 
preceded it, belonged wliat he said. 


THE THIRD DAY. 

The gray morning looked in chill and damp from the windows, 
the bough of jasmine tiuttered upon the glass, the rain pattered 
on the leaves. It was the hour of night and day which js coldest, 
keenest, most ungenial— and we stood, together, but apart— as pale, 
as chill, as heavy as the morning— quieted, yet still trembling with 
the agitation of the night. 

“ There is a messenger below from Cambridge. 1 sent on w’ord 
of our arrival last night,” he said, “your father is not well ami 
wishes to see you. 1 have ordered the carriage to be ready, and 
have been watching here till you should awake. It is very early, 
but 1 know you will not care for the discomfort— your tafher has 
expressed a strong desire to see 3 'ou immediately, and he is very 
weak, they say.” 

‘‘ Do you mean he is dying?” 1 asked, firmly, though 1 could 
not raise my voice above a whsper. 

”1 mean he is very ill. Yes, Hester! it does not become me to 
deceive you any more.” 

1 turned abruptly from him, and went to put on my bonnet. He 
lingered, waiting for me — when 1 was ready, he took some of the 
wrappers 1 had worn on the Journey over his arm, and went down- 
stairs before me. The servants were astir already, and I saw break- 
last prepared in the room which 1 had been in last night— he held 
the door open for me, and involuntarily 1 entered — 1 did not say 
anything. Indeed, what with the dreedful bewilderment and uu- 
certaint}’’ of my own position, and the pang of foreboding that 1 
was only called there when my father was in extremity, 1 had little 
power to say a wurd— 1 sat dowm passively on the chair he set tor 
me by the fire, wdiile he ordered the carriage to conrie round. 1 ac- 
cepted without a word the colfee he brought me, and tried to drink 
it; 1 did not feel as if 1 had any will at all, but did everything me- 
chanically, as though it were imposed upon me by a stronger will, 
which 1 could not resist. No longer the agitated 3 'outh of yesterday 
— the self-reproach tul and unforgiven lover, whose happiness hung 
on my breath, and to whom I was ruthless, obdurate, and without 
pity — he was so different this morning that 1 scarcely could think 
him the same person. This was a man who had the sole right to 
think for me, to guard me, perhaps to control me, whether I w’ould 
or no — 1 was not strong enough, at this moment, to resist his tacit 
and unexpressed authority. 1 only wondered at it vaguely in the 
languor and weariness which was upon me. 1 was wmrn out by 
last night’s excitement, 1 had a dull terror of expectation in my 
mind, but 1 had not heart enough to be impatient. My faculties 
were all benumbed and torpid. At another time, these few mo- 
ments of waiting would have been agony to me— but they were not 
so now. 

Then 1 heard the wheels at the door, and rose to go; he follo\ved 
me closely— assisted me in, wrapped me round with the shawds he- 


THE DAVE OF MY LIFE. 


108 

carried, and then took his place by my side— 1 made no remon- 
strance, I said Dothiue: — 1 submitted to all he did with a cluli ac- 
quiescence, and we drove off at a great pace, 1 think it did strike 
me tor a moment how ))itterly everything was changed, since 1 
stepped from that carriage on the previous night; once more 1 leaned 
back, and did not look at the noble old elms in the aven Lie— the 
shadow ot their branches over us .made my heart sick, and 1 closed 
my eyes till we were once more dashing along the free unshadowed 
monotonous road. A dreary and sad monotony was on those fresh, 
broad plains this morning/ The sky was nothing but one vast 
cloud— the fitful, chill breeze, brought dashes of rain against the 
windows — the country looked like an uninhabited desert. Dis- 
tance, flight, an endless race— away, away, away— toward the 
skies; but it was not fleeing from my fate. My fate was here 
beside me, the companion^of my jouiney— we could not escape 
from each other. 1 was his evil fortune, and he was mine. 

\ye did not say a world all the time, though we were nearly three 
hours on the wKj. Then came the familiar Cambridge streets— 
then he rose and whispered something to the coachman on the box 
— we subdued our pace immediately, and quietly drew up at the 
well-known door. Our younger servant, Mar3^ was looking from 
it eagerly— when she saw ns, she left it open and ran in— 1 suppose 
to say 1 had come. He helped me to alight, and 1 went in. 1 went 
slowlj' though 1 was so near. 1 wanted to see some one else first — 
soms one else before 1 saw my father. 

At the foot ot the stairs Alice met me. She came up to me, joy 
struggling with her gravity, to kiss and bless me, as she had been 
used to do. 1 turned away from her with a harsh and forbidding 
gesiure, and would not let her touch me. Her eyes filled with tears 
—her checks reddened and grew pale again. She muttered some- 
thing in a confused and troubled undeitone, of which 1 only heard 
the word “ pardon!” and then she said in a voice, which a great 
effort made steady and articulate, ” Your father waits you, Miss 
Hester — will you come?” 

1 followed iier in silence. 1 did not know what 1 was to say, or 
how to behave to my father. My heart swelled as though it would 
break, when 1 went along the familiar passages, where 1 had come 
and gone so lately in the gladness of my youth. 1 had a dull, 
heavy, throbbing pain in my forehead, over my eyes; but 1 followed 
her firmly, without a word. My father’s bed-chamber looked only 
upon the ivy-covered wall of the close, and upon some gardens be- 
yond it. The sun never came in there, and it was dim at all times; 
how much dimmer on this dreaiy morning, when there was no sun- 
shine even on the open plains. There was a fire in the grate, but it 
burned dull like everything else. Before 1 looked at my father, 1 
had taken in all the little accessories around him in one glance. The 
bottles upon the table, the drinks they were giving him, even the 
gleam of the wet ivy upon the top of the wall. My father himself 
lay, supported by pillows, breathing hard and painfully, and was 
very pale, but with a hectic spot burning on his cheek. He put 
out his thin white hand to me as 1 approached him. The diamond, 
a strange token ot his former self, still shone upon his finger; it 
caught my eye in the torpor and dullness of my thoughts— and in 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 109 

■this hour of extremity, 1 remember woiideriDg why be still cbose to 
wear this favorite rinsr. 

“ You have come liome in time, Plester,” be said faintly. 

1 pat oft my bonnet, and sat down beside him. My face and my 
heart were still quite dull. 1 do not think 1 expressed any emo- 
tion. J spoke only to Alice, and to her as coldly as if she had been 
a perfect stranger. “ Will you tell me what he must have— show 
me the things; and, it you please, leave us alone.” 

Silently, as if she was not able to speas, she pointed out the med- 
icines to me, and then went away, 1 followed her to the door, 
for 1 saw that she beckoned to me. How changed 1 must have been! 
tor Alice seemed almost afraid to speak to me, whom she had been 
used to cad her child. 

” Miss Hester!” she whispered, with a faltering, eager tone, and 
under her breath, ” do not tell him— for pity’s sake do not let him 
know what yon have found out!” 1 made her no answer, but 
closed the door and came back to his bedside. Then 1 sat down 
again in silence, 1 had nothing to say to him— nothing to say to 
him! — neither of earth nor heaven! 

” What have you to tell me, Hester?” said my father, at last. 
“ 1 am about leaving you— are you aware of it? do you know that 
this is the day which 1 looked forward to, when 1 asked you to 
place your fortune in my hands?” 

” Yes, father!” 1 was stupid, sullen, dead. 1 could show no feel- 
ing, for indeed 1 felt none yet. 

” 1 am glad that you decided as you did, Hester,” continued my 
father; “I have now no weight upon my conscience— no dread that 
1 have compromised your happiness; and 3 ^ou have a protector and 

home. You are happy, my love?” 

‘‘Did you say happy? oh, yes!” 1 said, with almost a laugh; 
‘‘ happy, very happy, papa.” 

Strange as it seemed to me, he appeared contented with what I 
said— he made no more reference to it; he lifted my hand gently 
up and down in his own. 

” And 1 am going awaj”,” he said slowly, ” going away, Hester, 
where?” 

NYhere? the word struck me with a strange superstitious terror. 
For the first time 1 was roused to look eagerly and inquiringly in 
his face. 

‘‘IMot to the family grave, Hester!” he said with a smile of 
awful amusement— yes, amusement, there is no other word—” that 
is only a stage in the journey; where am 1 going beyond that? Have 
3 ’-ou nothing to say?” 

” Father— father!” 1 cried wildly, with a breathless horror. 

” Ay, but you can not pilot me!” said my father; ” and by and 
by my ears will be deaf, should all the voices in the world echo my 
name. ’ ’ 

1 bent over him, holding him with terror unspeakable. Little 
training in religion had fallen to my share; but 1 hud the natural 
sentiment— the natural dread; and 1 forgot everything else in the 
deadly fear which made me cling to my father now. 

” Why do 3 'ou not tell me to be resigned?” said my father. “ Do 
you know what 1 am setting out upon, Hester? Distance, distance. 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


no 

distance — vaster than anything in our moorland —a dark, solitary 
journey, where no one knows I he way. Death! who believes in 
that? it is but an arbitrary word- one of the names we use for 
things we can not comprehend: and no one tells me where is the 
end.” 

” Oh, father, father, it is in the Bible!” cried 1. 

“ Yes. it is in the Bil>le. Are you afraid I do not believe it^ 
child? 1 believe it- but 1 see no clearer tor my faith,” said my 
father. ” I believe it as 1 believe that Columbus discovered a new 
world. But what is Columbas and his new world to me?” 

“But, papa, the Saviour—” 1 said, timidly, and in an agony of 
terror. 

” Ay, the Saviour — 1 believe in Him, Hester, but 1 do not know 
Him!” said my father, in a hard and painful voice. ” Yes— He has 
gone this road, they say. He might take c-ne by the hand in this 
mj^sterious journey— but 1 hnow Him not.” 

‘‘ Let me send tor some one, father,” 1 cried; ” there are, surely, 
some who know. Let me send for a clergyman — papa, do not re- 
fuse me. He could tell us, and he could pray.” 

” Telling would do me little service, Hester,” said my father 
faintly, with again that strange, awful smile ufon his mouth; ” it 
is not information 1 want. It is— ah! breath— lueathl” 

A sudden spasm had seized him; he had been speaking too much, 
and he was worn out. 1 raised him up in my arms when 1 under- 
stood his gestures, that he might have air. How his breast heaved 
and panted with those terrible struggles! 1 supported him, but 
with nervous, trembling arms. 1 feared the sight of this mortal 
suffering— it was dreadful to me— for 1 had never seen the anguish 
of the bodily frame before. 

When he was eased, and the spasm wore off, 1 laid him down 
exhausted. He was no longer able to speak; but as 1 watched him, 
1 saw his eyes, in which shone ail his mind, as clear and full as ever, 
untouched and independent of this malady, passing with a consid- 
erate and steady gaze from one part of the room to another. 1 
could not compreUend tliis mood. Hot with disquietude, nor with 
anxiety, did he ask ” Where?” He was neither disturbed nor un- 
happy; he seemed to have no fear. The smile had returned to his 
face; he still could be amused; and no human emotions seemed to 
break upon bis deep, deep calm. 

But L bad no pleasure in seeing his composure. Horror, grief, 
distress, overpowered me as 1 sat watching him. Oh, that smile, 
that smile! AVas this journey the only one in the world which a man 
could take composedly, without knowing where he was bound? 1 
had the common youthful ideas about age, and death-beds, and 
death. 1 gave the natural awe, the natural solemnity, to the won- 
derful termination, transition, change— the end of our life here — 
the beginning of the other world. 

It shocked and struck me with terror, to see him lie there upon 
the brink of it, asking ” Where?” with a smile. 1 remembered all 
the common sayings about the death of good men. 1 remembered 
Addison’s call to some one to come and see how a Christian could 
die. 1 wondered if there was ostentation in this, to set against the 
speculative amusement with which my father had spoken. Every- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


Ill 


Wiing else was swept from my mind by these thoughts. 1 forgot 
tije hal'd pressure of my owm unhappiness, and it was only recalled 
to me for a moment when 1 thought of appealing to Ilany, and 
wilh a shoclv and bitter pang recollected that 1 had no Harry now, 
but that only Edgar Bouthcote wailed below— waited for the issue 
of this tragedy, to take me home. 

For an hour or two after, my father lay dozing, taking no notice 
of me, save when 1 gave him his medicine. He seemed, indeed, to 
sleep very often for a few minutes at a time; but if 1 chanced to 
look away, when my glance returned to him I invariably saw those 
open, living eyes full of strength and understanding, noting all they 
saw with a perfect intelligence which struck me strangely. His 
mind was not dying. 1 have never seen anything that gave me such 
a wonderful idea of life and vigor as those glances from my father’s 
death-bed. He looked what was approaching in the face, and 
quailed not at it. Change was before him, not conclusion. With 
nis living soul he looked into a vague, vast future, and knew not 
what it w'as; but death, as he said, was but an arbitrary term— it 
meant nothing to that inquiring, speculative, active soul. 

After a long interval, he seemed to revive, and strengthen, and 
turned his eyes upon me again, 

“ And vmu are happy, Hester — are you happy?” he said, looking 
closely in my face. 

1 turned hiy eyes away— 1 think it was the first lie 1 had ever 
told— and 1 said only — 

” Yes!” 

But he was wandering once more among his own thoughts, and 
heeded not my looks, nor what they meant. 

‘‘ Lite is a strange problem,” he said, with the somber shadow 
which it used to wear, returning upon his face. ” 1 am about to 
find the solution of it,Hester; all my existence centers in one event. 
1 have suffered one act to overshadow my best years — that was my 
great error— what a fool 1 was; because 1 failed in one thing, 1 threw 
everything away.” 

‘‘ Because your failure in that one thing poisoned all your life!” 
1 exclaimed; ‘‘oh do not blame yourself, father; the blame did 
not lie with you.” 

” What was that to me if the penalty did,” said my father, in his 
old reasoning tone— a tone which contrasted so strangely with 
the feeble voice, and the great weakness in which bespoke. ” One 
act should not poison life, Hester! not evenfor a woman, how much 
less for a man. There are greater things jn this world than marry- 
ing, or giving in marriage.” 

He spoke with an emphasis of scorn, which made me tremble 
more and more. Alas! 1 saw that still in his very heart rankled this 
poisoned sorrow; and 1 shuddered to think that the same doom 
was mine — that 1 would carr}' to m,y death this same bitterness — 
that my life was already overshadowed as his had been, and that I 
was ready, like him, to throw everything away. 

” If it should be that I am to find out the wherefore of these dark 
mysteries; if that is the congenial occupation in the place whither I 
£ 0 ;” he paused suddenly when he had said so much— though L 


THE HAYS OF MY LIFE. 


112 

watched him eager l«y, and listened, he did not continue. He fell 
into immediate silence, and again he began to sleep. 

The confidence with which he spoke to me was strange. 1 scarcely 
could understand it — perhaps his weakness had some share in it, 
perhaps my absence — and it was the first time 1 ever had been 
absent Iroin home — had inclined his heart toward his only child; and 
perhaps he could not help this audible wandering ot his ihoughts, 
as strength and life failed him, and he gathered all his powers to his 
heart to keep his identity— to be himself. When he was awake and 
1 saw his eyes, 1 scarcely could believe in w’hat was coming ; but when 
he slept, 1 thought 1 could see moment by moment how the current 
ebbed and ebbed away. 

During one of those intervals of sleep, the doctor came in, and 
with him Mr. Osborne. With that practiced scientific eye, which it 
is so dreadful to mark upon our dearest ones, the doctor looked at 
him, and shook his head. He was lying so solemnly with his closed 
eyes, and not a movement in his frame, so pale now, so feeble, so 
perfectly at rest, that, a pang ot momentary terror struck to my 
heart; but he was not gone. He did not wake till the doctor had 
gone away, and Mr. Osborne was left standing by me. 1 never 
raised my head, nor greeted him. 1 did not answer his whisper of 
satisfaction at finding me here — even by my father’s bedside, 1 
would not meet as a friend a man who had willfully snared and 
betrayed me. 

When my father opened his eyes, he saw his friend by his bed- 
side; but his eyes were not so full nor so clear, nor so bright with 
life and intelligence as they had been; there was a change —he stirred 
nervously. 

“Ha! Osborne, my good fellow!” he said, ‘‘1 am just setting 
out— any messages, eh?— any word to— to Helen.” 

After he had said the name, a momentary color came to his cheek 
—he lifted his hand heavily, and drew it over his brow. 

” What did 1 say? am 1 raving? no, no, 1 know you all! stay 
here, Helen,” the diamond on his finger had caught his eyes— it was 
1 whom he was calling by that name, and already his faculties tailed 
to distinguish it from mine; “here,” he repeated, trying to draw 
off the ring, ” here— take it from me— wear it — wear it — 'tis a mis- 
fortune — keep it till you die.” 

1 took it from him, and he seemed to sink into a stupor. 1 never 
withdrew my eyes from him. The day had come and gone while 1 
had been watching, and now it was night. Lights were brought 
into the room- 1 felt some one come behind me, and stand there at 
my chair; but 1 did not look who it was. Oh! that silent, dim 
death-room, with no sound it it but his breath! Mr. Osborne leaned, 
hiding his face upon the pillar of the bed. 1 heard one suppressed 
sob behind me, and knew it was Alice; and 1 knew, loo, instinct- 
ively, that though 1 did not see him there was another in the room. 
But 1 never moved nor turned my head— not a tear came to mj dry 
eye, my lips were parched and hot; neither sobbing nor weeping 
were possible to me. 1 sat still by that bedside, in full possession 
of my mind and faculties. 1 never observed more keenly, more 
closely, more minutely in all my life— 1 felt no grief, 1 knew no 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 113 

\ emotion, 1 only ''-valched and watched with intense attention and 
\ consciousness to see my lather pass away. 

And there lay he. His speech was gone trom him — his voice was 
no more to be heard in mortal ears— his soul was within those darlc 
closing eternal gates— he was almost away. Suddenly he opened 
his dim eyes, and looked about him wildly, and said— 

“ Helen!” 

i\Ir. Osborne turned to me with a rapid gesture to seek the minia- 
ture on my neck. 

“ Let him see her — let him see her! Why have you left it be- 
hind?” he said, in a whisper, which had all the effect ot a loud cry. 

How vain it would have been! My father’s eyes closed once more 
in a moment — opened again to look round upon ns with a scared, 
bewildered glance — then were shut closely. 1 thought he had fallen 
asleep; but there was suddenl}^ a movement and rustle among them 
all, a faint stir — 1 could not describe it — as if something had been 
accomplished. 1 understood what it meant — it went to my heart 
like a knile. Yes! it was so — it was so— 1 was standing among 
those who had WTonged me, and he was gone. 

1 did not move, though they did. Mr. Osborne came and- put his 
hand upon m}’' head, bade God bless me, and said — 

” All is well with him— all is well with him, dear child. Go with 
Alice; this is no place for you.” 

And Alice stole to my side and put her arm round me, and en- 
treated— 

” Miss Hester, darling, my own child, come and rest!” 

1 shook them both away; they were weeping, both of them, but 
not a tear came from me. 1 was the only one quite self-possessed. 
I did not say a wmrd to either— 1 kept my seat, and shook them 
from me when they attempted to remonstrate. JNo! 1 could not 
yield to their false kindness; 1 would lather be alone — alone! as 1 
was indeed alone in the world. 

Then he came to me. When 1 saw him approaching 1 rose. 

‘‘Do not say anything,” 1 said. ‘‘If 1 must leave my dear 
father, 1 will go to my own room; let no one come to me — 1 will 
not be interrupted to-night.” 

He followed me as I went to the door— he followed me along the 
passage; perhaps he thought 1 needed his support, but 1 was firmer 
in my step than he was. 1 knew that his heart was j’^earning over 
me in my new grief— 1 knew it better than if he had told me— but 
my heart was not softened to him 1 turned w'hen I reached my 
door. 

‘‘ Why do you follow me?” said 1. ” Is it not enough that I 

have lost everything? Leave me in peace to-night.” 

He held out his hands to me, and caught mine. 

‘‘ Oh! Hester, Hester, weep, and weep with me?” he cried. “ Do 
not condemn me to this outer darkness— let me be with you in your 
grief.” 

1 drew m 3 ’self awa}'’ from him. 

” No one can be wdth me in my grief — 1 am desolate,” 1 said; but 
I waited for no answer. 

1 closed my door, and he went aw’ay from- the threshold— this 
threshold to which he had come for me when I was a bride. 


114 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


1 went in and shut to my door. 1 shut tlie door of my heart, and 
closed myself up alone in this dreary, solitary place. I was not 
without a consciousness, even now, that 1 had left them all longing, 
anxious, miserable .ibout me; but 1 felt as though they were all ene- 
mies— all enemies! as it 1 had not a friend in this wretched, tor- 
sahen world. 1 did not think what the real blow was which had 
struck upon me. 1 only felt my dreary hopeless solitude, and the 
desire 1 had to be left here unmolested. 1 thought it would please 
me never to see a human face again. 1 was in a wilderness more 
desolate than any Eastern waste — there were no heaven above me, 
and no human fellowship around. God and the Lord were words 
tome. 1 believed, hut 1 did not know them; 1 could not seek 
refuge there— and here there was not one. Not one of those 1 had 
loved so well, but had betra 3 ^ed me. 

My little room, my bower, my girlish sanctuary which 1 had left 
in my bride’s dress, and returned to now, worse than a widow! 
Quietly and mechanically 1 began to take oli my dress; it was not 
grief, but misery, which filled my heart, and there is a great differ- 
ence between them. My w’retchedness stupefied me; and when 1 
laid down my head upon my pillow, 1 fell at once into a heavy, 
deep sleep. 


THE FOURTH T)AY. 

It was a clear, cold, sunshiny autumn morning; the atmosphere 
was full of sunshine, yet there was little w^armth in the air, and 
there were thin misty clouds upon the sky, wdiich looked like vapors 
which the earth had thrown off from her own still bosom, and the 
wind carried up unchanged. Yet out of doors it w’as a beautiful 
fresh day, and the sun beat in through our darkened windov/s with 
a full bright flush, in mockery of our somber sliade. A dull, dreary 
excitement was in the house: it w’as the funeral day. 

1 had been living a strange, miserable, solitary life. Every day 
Alice brought me some food, and 1 took it mechanically. Every 
day 1 went down-stairs, and heard them speaking together. 1 list- 
ened when they addressed me, and answered them with perfect 
composure. 1 knew all the arrangements; by no pretext that 1 was 
not able, did 1 permit anything to be hid from me. 1 was quite 
able— my frame was strong — my heart was stunned— 1 could endure 
anything — there need have been no fears for me. 

But my intercourse with them went no further. 1 heard what 
they had to say, and answ’ered, but 1 suffered no approach toward 
friendship. Alice waited upon me with assiduous tenderness, but 1 
never spoke to her. Mr. Osborne appealed to our long acquaintance 
— to my father’s old, old friendship for him— to his love for mine 
and me. My heart was steeled. 1 made no response. 1 went and 
came among them alone — alone— as 1 was to be alone all ni}'' life. 

And he— he was always there — always ready to interpose for me 
if 1 expressed a wish, or opposed any iiitention of Mr. Osborne, who 
managed everything. If 1 was likely to be annoyed by any im- 
portunity, 1 knew that he interposed and freed me from it. 1 
seemed to see everything he did, present or absent, by some strange 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


115 


magic. He did not persecute me with vain endeavors after a recon- 
ciliation — he lett Lue to myself— we scarcely spoke to each other; 
yet when he was away 1 cliafed and fretied at his absence, and 
when he returned 1 knew how he looked — what he did — as well as 
it 1 had flown to meet him, or hung upon him with a young wife’s 
foolish fondness. We were evermore parted, yet evermore united — 
this feud and antagonism between us was as strong a bond as love. 

My father was to be laid in the family grave. This vvas at a lit- 
tle solitary church half-way between Cambridge and Coitiswoode. 
Some haughty Southcote in the old time had desired to be laid at 
the boundary and extreme line of his own lands, and hence had 
arisen a little desolate church andgrave-yard, and the mausoleum of 
the race. They had arranged thiitT Edgar Southcote was to be the 
chief mourner at this lonely funerab-that 1 could not bear. 1 could 
not see my father carried to his grave with only these two— Mr. 
Osborne and him — following upon the last journej'. 1 said noth 
ing, but I prepared myself. 1 wrapped a great black cloak about 
me, over my mourning dress— black, black, black — it was very meet. 
1 veiled my head and my face, and went out from these doors like 
something that belonged to the midnight, and not to the day. Alice 
stood and gazed at me aghast while I robed myself; and when I 
turned to go out, she fell down at my feet, and clasped her arms 
round me, and cried and pleaded. 

“ Do not go— it will kill you,” she cried. 

1 drew my dress out of her hands, and bade her rise. 

‘‘ It will not kill me,” 1 said bitterly; ” yet it it did it would be 
well.” 

As I went down-stairs 1 met Mr. Osborne. He stood before me 
in amazement. He said — 

” Hester, you can not think of this!” 

“Let me go!” 1 said; “let some one who loved him go with 
him— let me pass — no one shall prevent me— he has none in the 
world of his own blood but me.” 

“ My child, my child, you can not bear it. All shall be done as 
you would approve,” he said anxiously. 

1 did not answer, but passed him with an impatient gesture. In 
the close 1 found yet another interruption ; but he did not try to pre- 
vent me— he followed me into the carriage— he knew me better than 
they did. 

And so we set out upon our dreary journey. Once more 1 looked 
from the carriage windows, and wondered if this day was but a 
common day to the common people round. Once we met a mar- 
riage party — a gayer party than ours had been, five weeks ago — with 
young bright faces, and smiles and jests, and all the natural tokens 
of a time of joy. 1 looked at them with the strangest interest. 1 
wondered wdiich was the bride and what was appointed to come to 
her. Should she be as miserable as 1, or was mine a solitary in- 
stance? Toil would fancy a mourner had little room for such 
thoughts; but I had room for every kind of thought — no wild fancy 
or speculation, in that slow, dreadful journey, came amiss to me. 

Everything looked different from what it had been when 1 came 
by this same road to mj^ father’s death-bed. ISow the people were 
at work in the fields; there were voices in the air, passengers on the 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


IIG 

Toacl — everywhere life and motion, sunshine and hopt'. 1 saw the 
rustic people pause at tlieir labors to look at our solemn procession; 
1 could fancy how they asked each other who it was tliat came this 
wa}’^ to his last rest, ^ly thoughts went back to that night seven 
years ago, when my lather and 1 drove this way together, leav^ing 
our ancestral home. ^Ye had never been on the road again, so far 
as 1 knew— never till now— and now we were taking him to a home 
of which no man should ever dispossess him, to rest with his fore- 
fathers forever. 

A very low rude wall, one of the fences of the country, was round 
the church-yard. The church itself was small and poor — a humble 
little chapel, where only a few scattered worshipers ever came. I 
<lo not know wdiy it had been permitted to fall so much into neglect, 
for the family tomb was in a little chapel closely adjoitiing an open- 
ing from it This shelter of our race was paved wdth old tomb- 
stones, every one bearing the name of a Southcote, and the walls 
were covered with tablets to the memory of the dead of our house. 
There were two raised tombs beside, with recumbent figures, memo- 
rials of some more distinguished or more ostentatious than the rest; 
and this house of the dead was lighted by a small Gothic window, 
filled with scraps of ancient glass. Here, under the shelter of the 
groined roof, within these inscribed and monumental walls, and not 
where the free air of heaven should visit his grave, we were to lay 
my father. It was well — better for him than the green grass, the 
flovveis, the sunshine, and tne outer human world, was the little 
family chapel where, withdrawn from the common dust, his race 
and kindred waited till the end. 

In silence and solitude 1 stood at the head while it was being laid 
in its place. 1 did not weep, nor cry, nor faint. 1 never faltered 
for an instant from my firmness. In my cold, cold composure I 
stood and looked on. The words of the service never woke me, yet 
1 heard every one of them. 1 noticed the very tone of the clergy- 
man’s voice, and the habitual cadence of the words— 1 knew it was 
because he said them so often that they rang to that measure. 1 ob- 
served everything — not the smallest incident escaped my eye. By 
and by all was silent again— it was over, and we had to go awa.y. 

Only then did 1 linger for a moment— 1 looked round upon this 
well frequented place, wdiere so many had been brought and had 
been left before. 1 glanced over all the names, how full it w^as. 
This place was home — the house we were all born to inhabit— the 
permanent, lasting, dwelling place. The new-comer was not alone 
here; he was gath'ered to his fathers; he wuis entered upon his last 
and surest inheritance. 1 came away with a steady step— 1 think 
almost with a smile upon my face. My father had many^ friends 
around and beside him — only 1 was alone. 

And then we set out to return to our life, and left the dead be- 
hind. Oh! life inexorable, cruel! how it sweeps upon the traces of 
the last slow journey, and beats out the mourner’s footprints with 
its race and tumult! It was not hard to leave him, for he was w^ell; 
but it was hard to note our quickened pace, to know that we were 
going back to every day. No one spoke— 1 was thankful for that 
— even Mr. Osborne did not break upon the silence. Once more the 
IDeople in the fields looked up to see us going back again, and the 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


il7 

light came from the west, and the labors were almost over, and we 
had left our new inhabitant in the grave; that w^as all the world 
knew of us as we went home. 

When we entered, 1 saw" that the table was spread, and it occurred 
to me, that at my lather’s table lie ought to be represented, not by 
Edgar Southcote, nor by Mr. Osborne; and when 1 had taken off 
my mantle, I returned and took my place. 1 saw Mr. Osborne look 
at me with extreme and uncomprehending wonder. He could not 
understand my motive, nor what he called the rule of my conduct; 
he did everything very properly himself, and conformed to all the 
usual decorums, and he did not know how to judge me. 1 was 
aware of his wondering, and almost disapproving glance. 1 was 
aware that 1 ought not to have been able, on this day, to take my 
place here as 1 did; but 1 was not moved by knowing it; 1 only felt 
an indignant determination that neither of these tw"o should rule at 
m}" father’s board — this was his house still, and 1 was his heir. 

When the meal was over, 1 returned to my room; but 1 could no 
longer rest there; there was a visible void in the house— a dull ache 
and vacancy in my heart. I wandered about from room to room, 
to his bedchamber where he died, and where he had been lying lihe 
a-king in state and rest; from thence 1 W"ent to the library where his 
chair stood by the table, where his desk and his books seemed 
almost to have been used to-day. 

There I sat down in my dull vacant misery; the door was closed 
— the house was still — save for the branches weaving in the evening 
wind across the w"indow, there was neither sound nor motion near. 
1 was quite alone — Isat looking at the diamond ring upon my finger, 
his last gift. 1 wondeied what he meant by saying it was a mis- 
fortune. A misfortune! — 1 had no need, yet no fear of such, in my 
withered life. One great calamity, as 1 thought, had put me be- 
yond the reach of fate. “ JMo, no!” 1 repeated to myself uncon- 
sciously aloud, ‘‘ fate has done its worst— 1 can suffer no more. 1 
can lose no more — there is no misfortune left possible to me.” 

As I spoke 1 heard some motion in the room, and stai ting saw 
Mr Osborne rise from behind the curtain W"here he had been read- 
ing. In proportion to my former confidence in him, was my resent- 
ment against him now- and J became very angry when 1 perceived 
he had been watching me. 

‘‘ Then you have made up your mind to be miserable,” he said 
somewhat sharply, as he came up to me. “This is very foolish, 
Hester; it is w"orse than foolish— it is criminal, and it is weak; you 
forget your natural grief to nurse your wrath, and confirm yourself 
in a sense of injury. Where is your poor mother’s miniature which 
1 gave you for a charm to keep those evil thoughts away? li might 
have soothed your father’s last hour, it you had not thus imbittered 
your heart. Child, child I it is easier to‘ make misery than to heal it 
— do not throw your life away.’' 

“Ihave no life to throw away,” said 1 sullenly, “it has been 
taken from me and all its hopes. 1 do not care if I should die to- 
morrow.” 

” Do you think that those who make such speeches are in the best 
mind for dyine?” said Mr. Osborne. ” Dying is a solemn matter, 
Hester, and can only be done once. But at present, living is more 


118 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


in vonr way. Do you know that this revengeful passion of yourf 
will estrange all sympathy from you? Men and women who have 
lived long in the world have g) nerally known some real calamities, 
Hester; it is only boys and girls who can afford to indulge in de- 
spair, and say fate has done its worst. You do not know what you 
say— instead of fate and its curse, Providence has blessed you more 
greatlj^ than you are able to perceive.” 

” Not Providence— Providence never works by falsehood,” cried 1. 

Mr. Osborne’s face flushed with displeasure. “You are very 
bitter, Hester, very harsh in your judgment,” he said, “ and 1 would 
not bear with this passion of yours so long if you had not been a 
dear child to me for many a year; for your father’s and your 
mother’s sake I overlook your resentment against myself, though I 
have not deserved it; but, Hester, beware— it is all very well now 
to he heroically miserable; but you are young— you have a long life 
before you; and, however long you may dwell upon your injur}^ 
some time or other you will begin to want and long tor the happi- 
ness which now you despise. Hester! come, 1 will confess you liave 
had a hard initiation into the cares of life; be a woman and a brave 
one — let us see no more of the girl’s whims and humors. 1 can 
promise you all tenderness for your honest sorrow, but none for 
your willful wretchedness.” 

‘‘1 ask no tenderness, no sympath^^ 1 will not accept it,” 1. 
cried, starling from my seat. ” You know 1 have not a true friend 
in the world — who should sympathize with me? every one of you 
has <leceived me!” 

‘‘ It that is your conclusion, so be it,” said Mr. Osborne, walking 
back to his seat, ” 1 can only hope that your tiue friends will not 
be lost, before you have real need for them; and that when you 
come back to look for it, Hester, and find you right senses, your 
happiness will not be entirely out of your reach.” 

1 did not wait to hear any more, but left the room, unable to speak 
W'ith anger and indignation— the stupor of my misery was broken, 

1 was roused almost to madness. It \vas not yet a week since 1 had 
fallen from my happy confidence into this dark abyss of falsehood 
and betrayal, and already they blamed me — already they called me 
resentful, revengeful, obdurate. 1, the victim of their successful 
plots, 1 wdio stood alone and no one with mel 1 saw at once how I 
would be judged on all sides, how every one would condemn me — 
how light his offeuse would be in the eyes of the world — how unpar- 
donable mine! If 1 had been like to yield before, 1 could not have 
yielded after that, 1 set myself fairly to meet it all. He should 
have justice, justice! and neither deceit noi pity from me. 

In this tumult, my heart awoke, its dead and sullen inaction 
gave w’ay to a vivid feeling of reality — and as it J had known it now 
for the first time, there burst upon me the full truth of my father’s 
death. Yes! for the first time 1 felt to my heart how desolate 1 
was, and with a bitter satisfaction remembered that I had nothing 
to wean me from my grief, nothicg (o distract the mourning of my 
orphanhood— no wooing tender happiness to lead me away from the 
grave where 1 would build all my thoughts. Yet now also, tor the 
first time, 1 remembered what he had said upon his death-bed— 
strange words for him; ‘‘one event should not poison a lif('.” 1 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


119 

thought 1 heard this echoing; round me in my father’s tailing voice 
— the voice 1 should hear no more; and 1 threw mj’^selt down before 
the bed, kneeling and covering my face in passionate and bitter 
■weeping. My father! my father! where was he? where? 

When 1 rose from my knees, it was quite dark. 1 do not think 
any one can be in great or real grief without trying to pray. 1 
prayed little in the stupor of my misery, but now broken, wander- 
ing, disconnected petitions came to my lips among my tears. When 
1 appealed to God, though ever so feebly — and alas! so little as I 
knew of Him! — it calmed me in some degree. 1 rose and bathed 
my face to put away the tears— 1 was subdued and melted — my eyes 
filled in spite of myself. 1 did not weep over the death-bed or the 
grave. 1 felt now as if 1 could weep continuously, and that it was 
impossible to stay my tears. 

Then 1 heard a timid step without — 1 knew it was Alice — and by 
and by she came sqttly knocking to the door; under the door crept 
in the light from her candle. 1 remembered with a bitter ])ang the 
List time she came to me thus in the darkness — the night of my be- 
trothal. When 1 thought of that, I rose firmly and admitted her. 
How 1 was changed! Alice came in with a hesitating step, looking 
wistfully at me to see how far she might venture. AHce was greatly 
shaken with the evenis of these last few days. The bright look on 
her face was overclouded; she was humble, and deprecating, and 
uneasy. 1 had been her child, loving, confiding, almost depending 
upon her — and there vras such a dreary difference in everything now. 
She set the light upon the table, and lingered, looking at me. 1 
fancy she saw some encouragement in the gleam ot my wet eyes and 
the softening of my face. She came behind me under pretense of 
doing something, and then she said timidly “ Miss Hester, may 1 
speak?” 

1 could not say no. 1 did not answer at all— and she took this 
for permission. 

” ITou think every one’s deceived you, dear,” said Alice humbly, 
“ and in your great trouble you stand by yourself, and will let no- 
body help you. 1 don’t deny. Miss Hester, everyone’s done wrong; 
but, darling, it was all for love of jmu.” 

^‘Do not say so, Alice,” 1 exclaimed, eagerly, “you insult me 
when you speak thus.” • 

” Oh! Miss Hester, think upon my meaning,” cried Alice, ‘‘1 
thought 1 knew his look, his step, his voice from the first time he 
came under this root. 1 pondered and pondered in my mind if it 
could be him; but he never told me that 1 should know. You were 
as like to know as 1 was, dear— j^ou had seen him all the same; and 
it was not my part to speak, or 1 thought it was not. Miss Hester. 
Then the night he spoke to you first, he brought the roses here; he 
said to me, ‘ Do you think she would like them, Alice?’ and in my 
heart 1 knew where they came from; but never a word was spoken 
of that b}'^ either him or me. On your wedding-day 1 got more 
again, by a servant’s hand. 1 never doubled they came from Cottis- 
woode, nor that he sent them; but, dear, he never told me, and I 
had no right to know. You were willing to marry him. Miss Hes- 
ter, you were bound up in one another; was 1 to presume that 1 
knew more than you did, darling? And what was it 1 knew? noth- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


120 

ing at all, clear, but the thought iu my heart Oh! 31iss Hester, 
you’re all I have in the world — don’t turn away from Alice — don’t 
thinly I’ve deceived you — I’m desolate without you.” ^ 

” 1 am quite desolate; 1 have no one in the world to trust to,” 
said L 

“Oh! don’t say it— don’t say it!” cried Alice, “he’s been led 
into a snare once, Miss Hester, but truth is in his heart.” 

“ It is 1 who have been led into a snare,” said 1 bitterly, “ he has 
wrecked all my expectations — he has plunged me out of happiness 
into misery; but that is not all; lie has placed me so that 1 must 
either yield and be satisfied like a weak fool, or, if 1 resist, be 
known as a passionate ill-tempered woman, who makes him misera- 
ble. 1 see all that is before me— I am doomed like my fattier. My 
own life is robbed of ever}’^ comfort, and the blame of making him 
unhappy will be added to me— oh, 1 see it alt! 1 shall be called a 
termagant, a household plague, a scorn to women. It is not enough 
thathny life is wretched — my good name must go from me too!” 

“Oh! Miss Hester, not by his will,” cried Alice. 

As she spoke, a change came upon me. The pride of a wife 
came to my mind. 1 could blame him myself— but 1 could hear no 
one else blame him- 1 could not admit a third person to our do- 
mestic discord. My quarrel with Alice was for her owm fault; and 
not for his. My bitterness against Mr. Osborne was because he had 
deceived me, and not because Edgar Southcote had. No one but 
himself had any right to speak of his error to me. 

“1 am not speaking of my husband,” 1 said coldly, “what is 
betw’een us can only be settled by ourselves; no one can interfere 
between him and me. 1 speak only of circumstances— of my un- 
fortunate and unhappy position; that is all 1 refer to.” 

Alice paused, chilled and overcast once more; it was difficult tor 
her. a humble, simple woman, who rarely w^as offended, and who, 
when she was, forgave like a Christian, and never suftered the sun 
to go down upon her wrath, to understand or to deal with me; she 
stole rounil behind my chair, and bent down on the ground by my 
feet. 

“ Miss Hester, will you forgive me? you are used to me— you 
w’ould not take to another for a long time, dear. 1 was your nurse, 
and 1 have been y/)ur maid. Miss Hester, all your life — don’t cast 
ofl: Alice. ]Maybe I don’t deserve that you ever should trust me 
more; but let me be beside you, darling; let me serve you, and wait 
on you, and comfort you if 1 can. Oh! Miss Hester, my dear 
sweet young lady trusted m me — and even your papa trusted in me 
— don’t cast me oft, for you are my own child!” 

1 cried long and bitterly. 1 could not help it. The pleading of 
Alice recalled again to me how desolate and solitary 1 w'as. 1 had 
not a friend in the world, old or young, to whom 1 could confide 
my trouble; not one whom 1 could "lean upon if 1 w^as ill or suffer- 
ing; alas, not a wmman in existence, except herself, whom 1 should 
have wept never to see again; and disappointed as 1 w’as in those 
hopes of perfect S5nnpathy and union with my husband, which every 
one forms at some time or other, my heart yearned for the natural 
solace— the comfort of mother or of sister, which providence had 
denied to me. 1 let my hand fall upon her shoulder— I leaned upon. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 121 

her. Oh, Alice, Alice, why did you deceive meV” 1 cried, with 
a greal burst of tears. 

She did not answer anything— she drew me close to her bosom, 
and caressed and soothed me. My heart beat calmer. 1 was sub- 
dued— 1 scarcely knew how, as 1 leaned upon Alice. 1 seemed to 
have tound some rest and comfort for which 1 had been seeking 
vainl 5 ^ When she began to weep over me, my own tears stayed— 
my heart was eased because 1 had forgiven her; and then 1 raised 
myself up, and we sat together speaking of my father. 1 had never 
heard about his last days. 

“He never was well after you went away, Miss Hester,” said 
Alice; “ all that day after Mr. Osborne left, he wandered up and 
down talking to himself. The most that he said, that 1 could hear, 
was ‘she will be well -she will be well;’ for dear, his heart was 
wrapped up in you, though he said little; and then sometimes he 
wouhl take a turn, as if he was doubtful, and cnce 1 heard him say, 
like trying to persuade himself, ‘ She is not like me — she will not 
resent it as 1 would have done.’ 1 was not spying on him to hear 
this, Miss Hester; but he wandered about so, wherever 1 was, or 
whatever we were doing, and never seemed to notice us, and Mary, 
if she had minded, might have heard as well as me. A w^eek before 
you came home he took his bed, and when] was staying in his room 
waiting on him, he sometimes sp(»ke to me. God was good to him, 
dear, and gave him time to think, and ho was not near so high as 
he drew near his latter end; but. Miss Hester, y'ou might not care 
to liear what your papa said to me.” 

“ Oh! tell me everything— every word, Alice!” 1 cried. 

“ Sometimes he would not say a word for hours — and then all at 
once w’ould speak as it he thought 1 had been following all that was 
in his mind,” said Ab’ce; “ in this way, all at once, he said to me, 
* When she comes home, you will stay by her, Alice— let nothing 
persuade you to go away from her— she has no mother, no friend — 
and he did not say another word that night; then it was again, ‘ She 
may have disappointment in her life— few are free of it- -the sim- 
plest comfort is the best. Alice, you are a simple woman, jmu live 
in every daj" — do you bring your fresh heart to comfort my child.’ 
It looks presuming. Miss Hester, 1 know' it does, dear— 1 never 
could have thought such things of myself— but that was what he 
said.” 

“ Go on— go on, Alice,” said 1, as well as 1 was able through my 
tears. 

“ Dear, there was not a great deal more; sometimes he said only 
3 'our name, and ‘my only child — my only child!’ and then he 
w'ould turn and say, Be sure you imver leave her, Alice, she will 
liave need of 5 ’’ou.’ 1 can not think on much more; but when 1 

went and told him you w'cre come- it was in the night w'e got the 
news, and 1 was sitting up wdili him — he i-aid 1 w^as to send aw^ay 
that moment to call you to him; and you came— and oh, darling! 
what a comfort all your life, that you were in time to see hh latter 
end !” 

1 wms weeping now without restraint, leaning upon Alice. My 
solitude was less desolate, less miserable, when she was beside me; 
and 1, w'ho had always prized so much my father’s few^ tokens of 


THE DAYS OF MY . LIFE. 


122 


tenderness — it went lo mj’ heart to hear how he had remembered mo 
when 1 was away. “ Do you think he knew, Alice?” 1 whispered; 
it was an unnecessary que8li(m — for 1 was sure he did. 

” lie never said a word, dear — but it was not like he would tell 
me,” said Alice. ” Yes, Miss Hester, he had found it out — 1 knew 
it by his eyes that very day.” 

And now that 1 had the c'ew, so did 1; but I no longer felt 
anger against my fat her — though all of them had suffered me to sink 
passively into this gulf and grave of all my hopes. 

When 1 went to rest that night, it was Alice’s kind hand that 
smoothed away my hair, and said good-night, at my pillow. 1 wept 
myself to sleep, but my sleep was not haunted by the miserable 
visions of those nights which were past. 


THE FIFTH DAY. 

October was over now, and sullen and dark winter weather 
oppressed the skies, and settled down upon the country. 1 -was 
still in Cambridge, living alone in my father’s house. My husband 
came and went constantly, yet left me unmolested; I almost think 
he was afraid at once to enter upon the question of my return, and 
he respected the grief which would not be sympathized with, i 
believe, indeed, that to have an excuse for delaying any explanation 
or ariangements between us — to put off fixing that future which we 
both dreaded — there was a mutual pretense of business which 
claimed my attention after my father’s death; but there was, in- 
deed, no such thing. He had left one or two legacies, and desired 
that, except the books he bequeathed to Mr. Osborne, his library 
should be left intact, and even the house preserved, and a house- 
keeper placed in it when 1 returned to my own home; but he had 
neither debts nor debtors— there were no arrangements lo make. I 
lived a dreary life in the drawing-room, where 1 was sick at heart to 
go near the window, and never left lu}'^ chair when 1 could help it. 
1 read earnestly, yet eagerly, whatever books came to my hand — 
novels when 1 could get ihera— I was glad of anything to cheat me 
from my own brooding unhappy thoughts; yet 1 never thought of 
going away. Where could 1 go to? all the world was alike solitary 
— alike desolate to me. The heavy listlessness of grief came upon 
me — 1 cared for nothing — 1 scarcely desired anything. 1 had never 
had any visitors, and though one or two came to see me now be- 
cause 1 was mistress of Cottiswoode, to offer their condolences and 
sympathy for my loss, 1 denied them admittance when 1 could, and 
when 1 could not, suffered their coming and their going so indiffer- 
ently that they seldom came to trouble me again. Mr. Osborne 
came now and then, but his visits were only duty, and I here was 
little pleasure in them for either him or me. By degrees 1 was left 
entirely alone with Alice, and with my husband, wlien he came. 
People had begun already to speak of me with astonishment. I 
made Alice confess this was the case; and no one knew me or could 
take my part ; but in my heart 1 was rather glad than otherwise, to 
have my first condemnation over so soon. 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


123 

It was now a month since we had returned home, and save on the 
•first eveniu" and morning after our arrival at Oottiswoode, w^e had 
spoken to each other oulj’^ on indifferent subjects. 1 knew this 
could not last. 1 had always in my mind a certain deadened and 
dull expectation of our next interview. 1 feared it, and would have 
put it oft from day today, yet it seemed the one thread of life in my 
languid existence. My heart heat when 1 heard his footsteps come 
along tne close; that springy light rapid step! 1 knew its faintest echo 
— and equally well 1 knew it when duller and fainter it went away. 
The miser}’- of our position was, that we were not, and could not 
be, indifterent to each other; when he came, this subdued restrained 
expectation animated me into temporary vigor; when he went away, 
1 was aware of an aching disappointment, which mingled with a 
sense of relief. Involuntarily 1 watched and waited for him— it 
our meetings had all been joy, they scarcely could have been so 
breathlessly anticipated, for then we should have known each 
other’s plans, and intentions, and wishes, and now we were each m 
perfect ignorance of -what the other meant to do. 

1 myself was still -worse than that — Idid not know my own inten- 
tions; I had no plan for the future. I knew we must by and by 
decide upon something; but my niind seemed incapable of any 
action, save brooding over my own thoughts, or speculating on his, 
Alice had brightened, 1 could not tell why, since onr interview. 1 
suspected she nourished vain hopes that 1 was weak, and would 
yield to him; none of them understood me, or, il any one did, it 
was he. 

Things were in this position to-day, when Alice came and told 
me that he had arrived, and wanted to see me 1 told her to show 
Mr. Southcote upstairs. 1 was able to compose myself before he 
entered the room. 1 am sure lie could see no sign of agitation. It 
•was very different with him; his face had an excited, unsteady look, 
he was very pale, yel sometimes his cheek flushed with a deep faint 
color. 1 could not see that he either had any plan. I read in his 
whole manner that he had come to try once more what entreaty, and 
persuasion, and penitence would do. This hardened and strength- 
ened me; 1 was ready to hear him -with coolness and self possession 
when 1 saw that he brought neither to his conference with me. 

He sat down near to me, and leaned forward across my little 
table. His voice was dry and hoarse with emotion. “ Hester,” he 
said, ” 1 have w^aited, and been patient. 1 have not hastened nor 
troubled you. Have you no comfort, no hope, no forgiveness for 
me now?” 

” It is 1 that sliould have comfort— for it is only 1 that have been 
in sorrow,” 1 said, 

' ‘ Yes, and you have put me away from you. 1 have not been 
permitted to say that 1 grieved with my wife,” hesaid; ” yet I have 
giieved with you, H^-sler. You can shut out the man w’ho has 
oftended you— but you can not shut out the heart; all these weary 
nights and days— all this wretched time, 1 have been with you, 
Hester. You can not exclude my thoughts or my love— you can not 
make me forget that you are mine.” 

‘‘ 1 can not make myself forget it,” 1 said. ” No, you do well to 
taunt me. 1 know that 1 belong to you. It has all come true— 1 


124 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


feel what is upon me like a chain of iron. ' 1 remember j’our cruel 
words, when you said ‘ for ever and ever ’ — 1 remember what my 
father told us— you do not need to repeat my misery to me; 1 ac- 
knowledge it.” 

1 saw him start and draw back when 1 said ' my misery,’ as if 
it were a blow; but he recovered himself. “ Forever and lorever!” 
he repeated, ‘‘do you remember that night, Hester‘if there was no 
misery in our way that night — and how is it that w^e are changed? 
1 have sinned against you, and you have punished me. For a whole 
month now— and it is only two months since our marriage-day — 
the meanest passenger in the streets has had as much kindness 
at your hands as 1— is this not enough, Hester, can you not forget 
now this dark episode, and return to what we were. Let me sup- 
pose it is again that night— let us return to the time of our be- 
trothal, and begin anew. Will 3 ’’ou speak to me, Hester?” 

‘‘ We can not return to the time of our betrothal,” said 1; ‘‘ then 
1 was deceived, now 1 know — and it is impossible to restore the de- 
lusion again ” 

‘‘ Was there nothing but delusion?” he said hastily, ‘‘ was it 
folly to suppose that you cared for me at all— or is vengeance and 
not pity the companion of love?” 

‘‘ 1 can not tell,” said 1. “ 1 am no poet; but it you think it is 

easier to be wounded to the heart— to be deceived and ruined, and 
put to shame— by one who is dear to you than by an enemy, 1 know 
3 ’ou ere mistaken. If 1 had not cared for you, I should have had 
only myself to mourn for, and that would have been a light burden.” 

He sunk back in his chair for a moment with a look of blank 
dismay and almost horror. ‘‘ Deceived and ruined and put loshame!” 
he repeated. ‘‘ Hester! what meaniug do you put upon these 
M'ords?” 

1 felt the blood rush to my face, with indigution and shame and 
nervous excitement. “It is quite tru3,” 1 saiil, “ 3mu have taken 
the trope and strength out of my life — is not that ruin? and you 
have disgraced me in my own e 3 '-es. 1 did not leave my fat ner's 

house with 3 mu — you know ] did not give either heart or hand to 
you; but 1 awake and find that 1 am your wdfe— you have dis- 
graced and shamed me to m 3 ^self. I can only feel contempt and 
scorn for the deceived and foolish girl w’horn you have shown to me 
in her true weakness. 1 can never hold up my head any more — 
and by and b 3 ’^ you will disgrace me to the world.” 

“ How shall 1 do that, Hester?” he asked; his voice rang sharp 
and harsh— he felt what I said deeply —and in addition, I saw that 
at last 1 had roused a kindred opposition and anger in his mind. 

1 found a certain pleasure in it. I was glad to rouse him to be 
like me, in bitterness and enmity; though 1 was much excited, 1 
had command of myself — 1 could speak slowl 3 '- and clearly as 1 
thought. 1 had never been given to man 3 ’’ words — but 1 appreciated 
the possession of them now. 

“ When your neighbors see the disappointed sullen woman who 
is called by your name, they will know what to think of her,” I said. 
“ J shall be pointed at as one whose evil temper, wdiose bitter dis- 
position, makes every one round me miserable. All the hard tales 
of the old Southcotes svill be revived in me — they will say 1 am a 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


]25 

curse iaslead of a blessing —they will make an example of me. and 
tell bow happy I might be— how miserable I am. JSo one will know 
of the secret poison that has come into my life; but they (\’ill unow 
that 1 am bitter and harsh and unlovely, and they will judge what 
they see; the very servants, poor Amy who could not leave me till 
she had told me who she was — they will think me an evil spirit — 
they will shrink out of my way— and all the world will give their 
sympathy to you.” 

While i spoke thus, though it moved him much— though he 
changed color, and sometimes t^r a moment his eye flashed upon 
me with indignation, I saw at once that 1 had relieved him in some 
point. When I thought of it, 1 perceived that all this speech of 
mine pointed to no separation; but almost told him that 1 was ready 
to follow him home. 1 had not intended tnis — indeed 1 did not 
know what 1 had intended — I had formed no plan, and 1 only 
spoke, as.i so often acted, on the moment’s impulse, without paus- 
ing to think what it might lead to. When 1 discovered his satis- 
faction, it startled me for a moment; but then I was occupied list- 
ening to what he said. He spoke in a softened and hopeful tone. 

” This will not last, Hester! your own good heart will interpose 
for me. 1 have deceived you once, it is true; but neither 1 nor any 
one else will do you injustice.” 

1 made no answer. 1 saw he had something more to say, and 1 
waited sullenly to know what it was. 

” Will you come home?” he asked, ‘‘ there is nothing here but 
memories of sadness. Come, Hester! life and its duties wait upon 
us while we dally. If 3 ^ou can not forgive me, still come with me, 
Hester. It we do our duty, this blessing will come to us. At 
present we are paralyzed — neither you nor 1 are good for anything 
—and our life was not made for our own caprice— come!” 

‘‘ And what shauld 1 be good for?” 1 asked with some astonish- 
ment; for hitherto my life had been one of the most complete and 
total uselessness, and 1 did not understand what was required from 
me. When he took this tone, 1 alwa 3 ’’s acknowledged his influence 
— it was only when w’e came to personal matters — when 1 sat tri- 
umphant on the eminence of injurj"- that I got the better of him. 

” What? everything!” he said, ‘‘ 1 know 'svhac jmu are, Hester; 
you have life before you as 1 have; and happy or not happy, we 
have all its duties to do — not one thing, but a multitude. Come 
among your own people, to your own home— you have authority to 
exercise, charities and kindnesses to spread around you. You are 
no less yourself, because, it you will, you are d'isappointed and de- 
ceived in me; 1 will bear my burden as it is just I should; but, 
Hester, it becomes you to be no less brave — you must lake up yours.” 

1 gazed upon him with amazement— involuntarily my heart re- 
sponded to this call he made upon me. jNo one had ever bidden 
me arise and work before; but when 1 heard his voice, 1 suddenly 
acknowledged that this was the want of my life. 1 was quite in 
the mood for it— 1 might have gone into a nunnery, or joined a 
sisterhood of mercy, had 1 been a Catholic, or in a count rj'^ where 
such things were. 1 immediately leaped upon a wild imaginative 
vision of those things which he described so soberly as the duties 
of life. 1 took the heroic view of them at once — I had no eye for 


126 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


patience and meekness, and such tame virtues; my rapid glance 
sought out the great self-sacrifices, the privations of voluntary hu- 
mility. 1 was ready to walk over the hurning plowshares— to be a 
martyr at once. 

Yes! 1 began to be ashamed of my expectation, that he would 
plead, and pray, and humble himself at my feet, and that 1, injured 
and deceived, would spurn him from me. 1 was ashamed of resent- 
ing so bitterl 3 ’' my own unhappiness. In a moment J had reached 
the opposite extreme. What was happiness? a mere bubble on the 
surface. Duty and labor were the zest of life. 

With the speed of lightning these thoughts passed through niy 
mind — and all the lime he sat gazing at me across the table. 1 think; 
he scarcely was prepared for my answer; for he met the first words 
with a startled looK of mingled embarrassment and joy. 

“ When do you wish me logo home?” 1 said. ”1 am ready 
now.” 

‘‘ Ready now— to go home?” he exclaimed, with a flush of sur- 
prise and delight, rising to come to me; but he caught my abstract- 
ed, preoccupied eye, and, with a deeper blush of mortification, sat 
down again. ” You can not come too soon, Hester,” he continued, 
in a subdued and disappointed tone, ” for everything is disorgan- 
ized and out of order— mere is the greatest want of j'ou — though I 
will not say how 1 myself long to see you in your proper place- 
will 3 ’^ou come to-morrow?” 

‘‘ 1 here are somethings to do,” 1 said, vacantly, delaying without 
any purpose in the delay. ” Will Monday do?” 

” Yes, yes!” he said, with eagerness, “I shall come for you 
then; and now 1 go away in hope.” 

I made no answer— my mind was busied with my own projects— 
already in m.y thoughts I had begun my life of heroism and mar- 
tyrdom at Cottiswoode. Already I washed the feet of the poor, and 
watched by the bed of the plague-stricken. 1 did not pause to con- 
sider possibilities, nor ordinary rules; but followed up my own wild 
idea, in my own eager fashion. He waited for something further 
from me; but 1 said nothing to him— and alter a little interval he 
w’ent away. 

It was now Friday, and 1 had pledged myself to be ready on Monday 
logo to Cottiswoode. I went immediately to find Alice; 1 could 
perceive that she had been aw^aiting with great anxiety the issue of 
our interview, though absorbed as 1 was in my new thoughts, it did 
not immediately occUr to me w hy— and w’hen I went to her, Alice 
was quite nervous with expectation. 

” Do you think some one could be got quickly to keep the house, 
Alice?” said 1, ” do you think you could find some one to-day or 
to morrow?” 

Her face lighted up suddenly. 

“To be sure 1 could. Miss Hester,” said Alice; ” but, dear, 
wdiy?” 

” Because 1 have arranged to go home on Monday,” said 1, ‘‘to 
go home, Alice, to the duties of my life.” 

“Bless you, darling!” she cried; but her color changed when 
she saw my unresponsive face. “ It’s not against your will, dear,” 
she said timidly, “ you’re not forced to go. Miss Hester?” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 12-7 

“Forced? no! unless by my duty, which is there,” said 1. “I 
begin to see what is the use of me, Alice— or what should be, 
rather— for 1 have never been of use to any one. 1 must go to be- 
gin my work— there is the proper field for me — and now when 1 
know what it is, unhappiness shall never prevent me from doing 
my duty.” 

“ Is that all. Miss Hester?” said Alice, with a wistful look— she 
was mote disappointed than even he had been. 

“Yes! that is all,” said 1; “ what more should any one seek for? 
1 wonder you never told me, Alice, how' useless I was.” 

“Has any one told you now?” said Alice, drawing herself up 
with a little flush of simple anger, “ or dear, what has put such a 
thought in 5 'our mind to-day?” 

“ Hot anyone telling me,” I answered; “ but I see it very well, 
and clearly; perhaps, indeed, after all, 1 could not have done very 
much w'lien 1 w'as a girl — it is different now; but, Alice, let us see 
what preparations we have to make, for there is very little time.” 

“Yes, Miss Hester, directly,” said Alice, taking up her bonnet, 
“ I’ll go and see after the old w'oman; don’t you be waiting about 
the library, dear, it’s a dreary place for you. Wouldn’t you come 
out now your own self. Miss Hester, and breathe the air? Cam- 
bridge streets are no great things, 1 dare say, to them that’s been in 
foreign countries and in London, but better than always moping in 
the house — come, darling— come yourself and see.” 

1 was persuaded, and went with her. The day w'as not so miser- 
able out of doors as it looked within, and it was still scarcely passed 
midday, and there were many people abroad. We had not gone far 
before we met Mr. Osborne, who had a clergyman with him — a tall, 
meager, middle-aged man, in very precise clerical dress, about 
whom there was a certain look of asceticism, and extreme devotion, 
which as it happened chimed in with my mood of the moment. 
Mr. Osborne ami 1 met very dryly after our late quarrel. 1 had not 
softened in my resentment toward him, and he was impatient and 
angry with me— so that 1 thought it was mere aggravation, and a 
desire to exasperate me which tempted him to introduce his com- 
panion to “ Itlrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode;” it was the first time I 
had heard my name stated so, and 1 could not subdue the start and 
tremor with which 1 heard it— so that I did not, at the instant, 
notice the name of tne person introduced to me, and it was only 
when L heard it repeated that it struck upon me with a sound more 
startling than my ow'n. 

“ JMr. Saville is lector of Cottiswoode— the clergyman of your 
parish. Hester,” said Mr. Osborne; “ when do you return home? ’ 

“ oil Monday,” 1 said; but my wdiole attention w’as fixed upon 
my new acquaintance— Saville! 1 could not think, for the first mo- 
ment, what association I had with the name— but it w'as a painful 
one, and it had something to do with Edgar Southcote. 

“ 1 am glad to meet my 3 "oung relative,’' said the clergyman with 
a stiff bow— his young relative! could he mean me? 

1 gazed at him for a moment, but only with a dull astonishment 
—for it was quite beyond my comprehension what he could mean. 

“ The parisn has been much neglected. 1 hope to bring its neces- 
sities before you soon,” said Mr. Saville, in his measured chanting 


THE DATS OF MY LIFE. 


ns 

tone, “ 1 do not despair of making the deserl rejoice, •with your as- 
sistance, Mrs. Southcote; but at present it is in a deplorable condi- 
tion. Is^o church sentiments, no feeling for what is seemly and in 
order — there has been no resident on the estates for so many 5 ^ears ” 

“Ah! the young people will rectify that, no doubt,” said Mr. 
Osborne, carelessly; “1 am glad to see you out of doors, Hester, 
and glad to hear you are going home; your own good sense— i al- 
ways trusted in that.” 

“ 1 shall be glad to do all I can,” 1 said, hurriedly, answering the 
clergyman, and taking no notice of Mr. Osborne, “ but you will 
have to instruct me at first, for I am quite ignorant of work; can 1 
take anything with me that would be of service? pray let me know.” 

“ 1 shall be glad to make out a list of books and useful articles— 
no trouble! pray do not speak of it,” said the Rev. Mr. Haville, with 
a wonderf ul bow. 

Mr. Osborne groaned. “I am in some baste,” he said sharply, 
“ good-morning, Hester— 1 shall see you before you leave Cam- 
bridge;” and as he turned away, I heard him mutter — “ Poor fool- 
ish (Thild! is she to comfoit herself after this fashion?” 

I turned away proudly— this worldly man might scorn these self- 
denying labors, "which were to be all the pleasure of my life— but 1 
only clasped them closer on that account. 1 called Alice to me 
again, and went on in silence. 1 persuaded myself how glad 1 was 
that 1 had encountered this clergyman, but in spile of my devotion 
to the work about which he seemed so anxious, 1 could not keep 
my mind from straying back to his name, and what he had said. 
Saville— Saville — it suddenly burst upon me! that was the name of 
the man who came with the boy Ederar to Cottiswoode, before vre 
left it. 

1 felt my face burn with indignation and displeasure— he called 
me his young relative— perhaps he was that man’s son, and a rela- 
tion of Edgar Southcote. 1 thought it a new insult, that by any 
cbunce such a peison as the first Saville should be related to me. 
Yet 50 much was 1 moved by my new sentiments, that 1 think 1 
made the strongest eftort which 1 ever recollect making to put 
doAvn this feeling. Yes, 1 had become enamored of mortification 
and self-abasement— 1 had my work to begin to— and what did it 
matter it this clergyman were Saville’s son — what did anything 
matter to me? Was 1 not about to court humiliation and offer 
sacrifices— to forget my worldly comforts and delicate breeding — to 
wash the feet of pilgrims? and 1 was glad to find at the very outset 
a great unexpected mortification in my way. 1 walked along very 
rapidly beside Alice. She was anxious to speak to me — very anxious 
about myself— but 1 did not think of beginning my labors by doing 
what ] could to lighten the kind heart of Alice. 

AVhen we were returning, after visiting a woman whom Alice 
knew, and whom she arranged with —for though this might have 
been a very suitable beginning of my labors, L did not think of 
making it so, but was shy and stood aloof— we began at last to 
speak. Alice no longer understood or could deal "with me; she 
hesitated and was timid, and never knew what to say in our con- 
versations. 1 do not wonder at it — for when 1 look back upon those 
days, 1 do not always find it easy to comprehend myself. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


129 

We had just passed a ^roiip of young ladies— three handsome, 
tall, well-dressed, girls, evidently sisters, and full ot talk and eager 
interest in something they were discussing. “Dear,” said Alice, 
with a sigh, “if you had but a sister. Miss Hester, or some good 
young lady to be company for you at Cottiswoode.” 

“ 1 want no company, Alice,” said 1. 

“You never knew what it was, dear,” said Alice, “ a friend is a 
great blessing and comfort, more than you think for. Couldn’t you 
now. Miss Hester, darling, think upon some one to keep you com- 
pany this dull winter? You’ll be lone in the country, and nothing 
to amuse you — do think upon it, dear.” 

“ I do not want to be amused. 1 am going to work like a rational 
creature,” said 1; “ do you think 1 am good for nothing but amus- 
ing myself, Alice? No, I have lived long enough for my own 
pleasure— and now that pleasure is out of the question, 1 want to 
live for others. I must have been very selfish all my life. I want 
to sacrifice myself now, and live for tire good of the poor and the 
distressed.” 

“ Dear, it’s a blessed thing to hear a young lady like you speak 
such words,” said Alice, with tears in her eyes, “ and to serve God 
and to be good to His poor, is the way to be happy, darling; but 
you never need to live solitary, or give up a good triend for that.” 

“ Toir do not understand me, Alice. 1 don’t want to be happy,” 
said 1, sternly; “ 1 want to do my duty — happiness is all over in this 
world for me. Do not say anything — you will only vex me; and you 
know 1 have no great friend to give up even if 1 cared for it.” 

Alice paused again, disconcerted, eager, ready to say a gr’eat deal, 
but afraid of offending me. .1 fancy, at last, that she thought it 
best to let me have my way. 

“ And what will you do. Miss Hester?” said Alice. 

“ 1 scarcely know,” said 1, “ the clergyman will tell me, and 1 
shall learn, and 1 am sirre you know, Alice, what ladies can do in 
the country. I could go to nurse the sick in (he village— that is one 
thing.” 

“ Birt, dear Miss Hester,” said Alice, ” if the qireen had come to 
nurse your papa— do you think she could have made up to him, 
poor gentleman, for the want of you?” 

“ No, no, no! why do you say such things?” said 1. 

“ Because poor folks feel just the same,” said Alice, wiih a little 
dignity; “ a poor man would sooner have his own wife, and a poor 
woman her mother, or her child, to nurse her, than the greatest lady 
in the land.” 

1 was slightly offended at what Alice said. “1 shall only go 
where I am ot use. you may be sure,” 1 said, “ 1 will seek out tlie 
poor, and work for them. 1 will teach the childreu. 1 will take 
care of the old people. There is a greal deal of misery everyw’here 
—1 can understand it now— and 1 shall find plenty to do.” 

“ Yes, dear, there’s plenty ot trouble,” said Alice, with a heavy 
sigh; “ plenty of God’s sending, and plenty of our owm making. 
Miss Hester; and old folks like me, that have seen grief, it coes to 
-our heart to see the young and the great that have happiness at their 
feet, and will not stoop down to lilt it— and that’s the truth.” 


130 


THE DAYS OF MT LIFE. 


“ If you speak of me — 1 do not wish to hear of happiness. 1 
have no longer anything to do with it/’ said 1 angrily. 

How 1 clung to this! how 1 closed myself up in a gloomy pano> 
ply, and denied their vain consolations. AVe went the rest of the way 
home in silence. 1 was displeased with Alice, and she was grieved 
for me. 1 do not know how she comforted herself; but 1 took 
refuse in ray intended martyrdom. 1 did not wish it to be agree- 
able. 1 was impatient of being told that 1 could do all this, yet not 
diminish either my comforts or enjoyments. 1 was anxious to 
suffer, to scorn delights, to meet with trials— not the Lady Bounti- 
ful of a village, but the heioiue of some dangerous mission w^as it 
ray desire to be. I had the true ascetic mood upon me. 1 was not 
disposed to “endure hardness ’’ for the sake of doing good; but 
rather to endure doing good for the sake of the saciifice and suffer- 
ing which 1 anticipated so eagerly; and this was how 1 intended to 
act upon my husband’s sober exhortation to come to my own home 
and my own people— to take up my burden, and do the duties ot 
my life. 


THE SIXTH DAY. 

Monday dawned bright and genial; one ot those rare November 
days, when summer seems to come back again to see how the world 
looks under the reign ot winter. The air was not cold, but so clear, 
that on these wide plains ot ours 5^11 could see for miles around 
you. There was no wind; white clouds lay entranced upon the 
blue deep sky, which was mellowed and warmed wdth a flood of 
sunshine— and against it the few trees stood out with a distinctness 
wiiich became almost ridiculous, when it w^as a bristling pollard 
wu’llow which outlined all its bare twigs, like the hair of a fright- 
(Mied rustic standing on end, upon that wonderful background. 
The sandy path sparkled with minute crystals, the mosses on the 
low stone fences caught the eye like banks of flowers; here and 
there a little rivulet of water, bridged with a plank came sparkling 
through a meadow with a line ot trees on either side; and under 
this full sunshine an occasional morsel ot new^ plowed field gave 
diversity to the vast level— and long lonely roads, with a single 
horseman or foot-passenger coming' clear out of the sky, broke 
through the sunburned meadows, hedgeless and naked, thrusting 
up now and then another leafless affrighted willow — a far-seeing 
sentinel, scared by something coming which it could see, though 
you could not. The sky itself falling out of its glorious full blue, 
into wonderlul grays and olive tones, deepening and deepening, yet ' 
everywhere breaking into streaks of light, to the very edge of the 
horizon, gave a w’oiiderful charm to everything below; and upon 
our faces came the fresh air, wdiich was not wind, without violenco 
yet full of exhilaration, so fresh, so pure, so limitless, a world of 
sweet existence in itself. Though 1 closed my heart against its in- 
fluence, 1 could not help but note the day— 1 could not help com- 
paring it to that bright face ot Alice opposite me, from which jmuth 
had passed, which had little hope for this world, and on which sorrow 
had fallen with its utmost w^eight, yet Avhich was happy still. AVhen 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


131 


1 looked at my husband, there was the light and the hope of man- 
hood upon his lace, yet it was clouded; and what was 1? a sullen 
spring-day, uugenial, ungladdened. So 1 carried out my involun- 
tary metaphor. 

Everything had been suitably arranged in Cambridge— a house- 
keeper was established in the house, and Mary remained with her — 
nothing was disturbed of all our old household arrangements. My 
father had left his income to me, of course; and 1 wa^able to main- 
tain this for myself. It was equally a thing of course that Alice 
should accompany me — we never needed to speak on the subject, it 
was so clearlv understood between us— a ad my husband, and Alice, 
and 1 traveled very silently to Cottiswoode. 1 had sent there the 
previous night a large box full of things which Mr. Saville, -in a 
very stiff, polite note, had recommended me to bring. Among its 
contents were some prayer-books and catechisms, but I am afraid 
one of the most bulky items was dark cloth for a sort of uniform 
which Mr. Saville recommended to be worn by the lady visitors in 
his parish— for he had hopes, he said, of establishing a devout and 
energetic sisterhood to assist him in his work. 1 was much occupied 
with my own intentions and purposes in this respect. 1 saw myself 
in the gloomy mantle of the order going about sternly, sadly, serv- 
ing other people ouly to mortify and humiliate myself. 1 did not 
pause to ask whether, with my clouded face, and obdurate, drdl, 
determined heart, I would be an acceptable visitor anywhere. “ The 
poor ” were merely the passive objects of my self-martyrdom. 1 
never took them into account in the matter, nor paused to consider 
whether or not my. ministrations would be a comfort to anyone. 
My whole wild plan sprung entirely from thoughts of myself. 

When we came to the great avenue of elms, 1 gazed up at it stead- 
ily. They were grand old trees. The free wide air about them had 
strengthened the noble life in these stout retainers of our house. 
They^ threw abroad their great branches with a glorious freedom — 
they had no bias nor stoop in one direction or another, but stood 
boldly upright, impartial, indifferent from what point of the com- 
pass tlie wind might blow — and behind the forest of boughs and 
twigs, at every countless crevice and opening, the sky looked 
through, marking the entwining lines, great and small, like some 
grand lacewoik, upon the while rounded clouds poised upon its 
surface, and upon its own magnificent full blue. I saw how excited 
and nervous Alice became as we neared home— she gazed about her 
with eager glances— she folded her hands together, wrung Ihem 
close, put them to her eyes. It was harri for her to keep still, harder 
still to be silent as glimpse after glimpse of the familiar road burst 
upon us. My husband spoke to her once or twice in sympathy. 1 
said nothing. When we passed the village. I saw the clergyman 
stand ng in the garden at the Rectory, looking at us as we passed 
by, and there were many little groups in the neighborhood of Cot- 
tisboiirne, and the children set up a shrill hurrah as we drove 
through the village; but 1 sat back in my corner, and cared tor 
nothing. At last we drew up and alighted. This time 1 suffered 
his hand to help me, though the memory of that former night re- 
turned upon me, so that 1 scarcely could keep my composure, unce 
more 1 looked up at the arms of our house sculptured above the door 


132 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


— once more I saw the servants ranj^ed within — and then 1 siiflered 
him to lead me through them, and bowed, tliough 1 could not smile. 
1 saw they looked at me now with a new and wondering cuiiosity 
1 saw that 1 was aa object of more personal and eager interest than 
when they gathered with smiles to greet their master’s bride. Aes! 
my reputation had come before me— tliey were prepared to wonder, 
to comment, to criticise— but 1 was not wounded at the thought; 1 
only passed by them with a little additional haughtiness, and went 
to the room which was prepared for me — the same room where I 
spent that first dreadful night after our coming home. 

When 1 had arianged my dress, 1 went down-stairs to the room 
which now was the drawing-room, but which had been our dining- 
parlor in past days. It was a large, long room, spacious but not 
bright, with one great window opening to the lawm, and a smaller 
one in the corner of the w^all. When I entered, he was walking 
about with an expectant look upon his face— he started and made a 
step forward as it to advance to me as 1 came in, but though 1 saw 
him perfectly, 1 did not look at him, and he stopped and returned 
again. 1 went to the window to look out upon the lawn and the 
great walnut-tree, which could only be seen imperfectly from this 
point— then 1 took a seat in silence. A painful interval followed. 
1 sat quite ftill, vacantly looking out. He paced about the room 
with unequal steps— sometimes rapidly and with impatience. We 
were neither of us doing anything — we were like two enemies watch- 
ing each other, ready to strike. 1 do not think that till that mo- 
ment either of us realized what a frightful thing it w’as to live 
together, confined within the same walls, and with this feud be- 
tween us. 

“ How are you pleased, Hester, with the new arrangements — the 
furniture— the house?” he said, throwing down a book upon the 
table, somewhat noisily in his extreme agitation. 

” 1 am quite pleased— everything is very well,” 1 answered. J 
found it difficult to command my owr» voice. I was suddenly seized 
with a wild wonder, why we were placed here to torture each other. 
It might preserve appearances— but we surely would have been bet- 
ter wi'h the whole world between us, than together as we were. 

” When we were boy and girl, we had a conversation here,” he 
-went on rapidly, now coming up to me: ‘‘ do you recollect it, Hes- 
ter?” 

” Yes,” 1 said, ” then I believed in you, and poiiited out to my 
father the picture you resembled. My dear father! 1 thank God he 
does not see us to-day.” 

” What lecture did 1 resemble, Hester?” he asked, with a good 
deal of emotion in his voice. 1 pointed to it with a quick gesture, 
but could not trust myself to speak. 

‘‘You took my part,” he said, ‘‘you had compassion forme — 
you bore me witness that 1 was no deceiver; and, Hester, your face,, 
your voice, your generous, brave, girlish frankness, have made my 
heart warm since that day.” 

1 held up my hand in entreaty. 1 could not bear it. 

‘‘ Ino. 1 will not persecute you,” he said, ‘‘ no, do not fear me — 
we shall gain nothing by discussions of the old question. 1 bid 
you welcome home to your own house — that is all 1 have to say; 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 133 

and now 1 will relieve you of my presence— you will thank me for 
that, at least.” 

Rut 1 (lid not even thank him for that. What had been wretched 
wdiile he Avas with me, became intolerable when he was gone, 1 
drew the chairs aside, and walked up and down the long apartment 
in restless misery. Day after day, year after year, were we to live 
thus? — together, yet with a world between us— with nothing to say 
to each other — nothing to do with each other — a sullen, dreary 
silence, or halt a dozen forced words, making all our domestic in- 
tercourse. 1 had anticipated much vague misery, but the actual 
exceeded the ideal; and yet, though it was miserable to be together, 
I was impatient and iealous of his absence; and when i threw my- 
self into a chair by the fire, and began to gaze into it, and to brood 
over our new life, my thoughts settled down upon a nearer object, 
and only wondered where he had gone to, wlien he would come 
back again, and if he came again, wdiat he would say. 

It was so strange to raise my head, and look round, and see the 
familiar faces of those family portraits looking down upon me. In- 
stinctively 1 turned to that picture which 1 had said he resembled 
as a boy. 1 did not think it was like him now; his face was no 
longer the face of a student, with those downcast, thoughtful eye- 
lids, and lines of visionary pensiveness. My husband was no vision- 
ary; he was not a man to be consumed of over-much thought; he 
loved the fiee, open air — he loved exertion and wholesome labor. 
With a strange perception, 1 found out that this was the case. We 
seemed to have changed characters since the time of our youth. It 
was 1, now, who lived the unwholesome inner life, who shut myself 
up with my thoughts. 1, whose nature was not so — whose spirit 
was eager, and courageous, and enterprising — who all my life, till 
now, had loved adventure and freedom. 1 was paralyzed. 1 was 
contented to sit still, brooding and wretched. 1 cared no longer for 
the healthful functions of life. 

But 1 was glad when Alice came into the room, and interrupted 
my thoughts. 1 had still sufficient discretion to know that, at this 
moment, at least, it was safer not to indulge them. 1 made Alice 
sit down by me, and talk to’me, though she looked wistfully round 
the room, and into my face, as if to ask where he had gone. Alice 
hail learned caution now, and was silent about him. We began to 
speak of my father. The harsh tempest of my unhappiness had 
swallowed the tears, the tenderness, the complaints of grief. I had 
scarcely mourned at all for my father, as people call mourning. His 
loss added a perfect desolation to my other misfortunes, but 1 did 
not w^eep for it as for a great calamity— it shut up my heart in a 
closer seclusion— it did not soften and lay me prostrate. 1 was 
under a process of hardening, and not of subduing. Contact with 
death did not humble me— it only made me withdraw myself the 
more into my own ilisturbed and darkened world, my own deso- 
lated and solitary heart. But since 1 had been reconciled to her, 1 
found a little refuge, a little comfort with Alice. I sat and wept 
when she spoke of Trim. 1 was glad to hear her do it. 1 felt myself 
lightened and eased by a cmversation such as we were having now. 

While we talked thus, my eye happened to fall upon my father's 
ring. I had to wear it on my forefinger— it was so much longer 


134 THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

than the other— and I did not like to have profane hands touch it, 
or to give it away from me, even for an hour, to have it altered. A 
misfortune! 1 had no clew to what my father meant when he called 

it so. ... 

“ Did you ever hear any story of this, Alice?” I said, holding it 
up to her; “ he said it was a misfortune. 1 can not tell what he 

meant.” , . , . ..... t 

“ Yes, Miss Hester! I’ve heard the stoiy,” said Alice; it be- 
longs to the family, dear. And there’s a strange tale to it, and a 
prophecy, though whether it’s just fancy, or true, or what trust you 
may put upon it, it’s not for the like of me to tell. But 1 never be- 
lieve myself. Miss Hester, that there’s power in a bit of gold and a 
shining stone, even if it’s as precious as that.” 

“ 1 have never heard it. Tell me, Alice,” i said. 

‘‘It’s called the Star of Misfortune, dear,” said Alice, lowering 
her voice with some awe, though she had professed her skepticism, 
” and I’ve heard say it was a very grand diamond, and could buy 
up many a poor man’s house; but this 1 know to be true. Miss Hes- 
ter, that though it’s been sold, and lost, and given away, the house 
of Cottisw^oode never can keep it from them— it always comes back 
again— and it never can be lost till the time, let them do what they 
will.” 

” But 1 do not understand this. Tell me the story, Alice,” said 1. 

‘‘ Well, Miss Hester, it belonged to the secoodson of Cottiswoode 
many a long year ago,” said Alice; ‘‘ it was in a time when there 
was little learning— fat different from now— but them that w^ere 
learned had great hearts that are never heard of nowadays. The 
story goes that he got it from a spirit— but you’re not to think, dear, 
that 1 put faith in that; he had been a strange gentleman, given up 
to learning and caring for nothing else— though good to the poor 
and kind-hearted as L have heard. "There were but two sons of them, 
and the eldest, the squire, was a great gentleman at court, and gave 
Cottiswoode to his brother to live in — and there he used to live all 
solitary, reading his books and studying everything in the earth and 
the skies, and was counted a great scholar in his day. And wher- 
ever he went, and wherever he was seen, he wore that ring on his 
left h.and.” 

Involuntarily, without thinking what 1 did, 1 removed my ring to 
my left hand as Alice spoke. In spite of her professions of unbe- 
lief, Alice spoke very reverentially, and impressed her heaier with 
a strong conviction of the truth of what she said. 

Yes, dear, there he is,” said Alice, pointing suddenly to one of 
the portraits, ‘‘ if you look close, you’ll see the ring on his finger; 
and 1 don’t doubt he was a fine young gentleman, and all the look 
of a scholar about his brow.” 

1 started with great surprise — the portrait she pointed to was the 
very same one at which 1 had been looking before she came — the 
one which I thought like Edgar Sonthcote when he was a boy. 

‘‘ 1 have heard of him often,” 1 said—” but 1 never heard this 
story — and, Alice, my father never wore this diamond while we 
were in Cottiswoode.” 

“it was because of the tale. Miss Hester — hush, dear, and 1 will 
tell you,” said Alice. ” IBs name was Mr. Edgar, and he was the 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


135 


squire’s only brother, as 1 said—ancl for long they were loving 
Iriends; the one was great at court and the other a great scholar, 
and Cottiswoode was a grander estate, and a grander hall than it is 
now. Bat Mr. Edgar chanced to see a young lady nigh and tell in 
love with her, Miss Hester— and the squire came down on a visit, 
and he fell in love with her too — and strife came between the 
brothers, as it has come between many a generation of the name 
since — and the lady chose the squire and cast off my Edgar, and 
there was sad work in the house. But the end was that Mr. Edgar 
left all his books, and went away to foreign parts to the wars— and 
though his brother and the lady wanted to make friends, he would 
not, but held up his left hand to them, and said he would leave their 
children an inheritance. Well, as the story goes. Miss Bester, no 
one thought more of that, except to be sorry for the- poor gentle- 
man, and the squire and the lady settled down at Cottisw'oode, and 
had two beautiful boys, and were as happy as a summer-day — 
but when ten years were gone, an old man from over the sea 
brought a letter to the squire— and what was this but Mr. Edgar’s 
ring and a prophecy about the house and the name of Southcote — 
the ring was always to go to the second son, and it was to be called 
IMisfortune; and trouble was never to depart from the race till it 
w'as lost.” 

" But you said it could not be lost,” 1 said, eagerly. 

Is either it can, till its time,” said Alice wu'th solemnity, “ when 
there is no second son born to the house of Cotdswoode, but only an 
heir, then the curse was to be over; and when it was worn upon a 
woman’s finger it was to lose its powder; if it bad not been for that, 
dear — though 1 put no trust in such things— 1 could neither have 
told you this tale, nor seen that evil thing shining on your innocent 
finger. Well it came to pass. Miss Hester, that when the poor lady 
at Cottiswoode read the words Mr. Edgar had written, and saw the 
diamond, she screamed out it was shining and looking at her like a 
living eye, and fell down in a fit, and was bi ought to bed of a dead 
baby, and died before the week’s end-- and the squire’s heart broke, 
and" the two boys grew up with no one minding them. There wms 
strife between them from that very day, the stciy goes, and when 
they came to be men — it was the time of the civil wars — one took 
one side and one the other; and the youngest boy went oft from the 
house by night with that jewel on his finger, and nothing else but 
his sword ; and Cottiswoode was ta’en by the rebels, and blood shed 
upon the kindly threshold— brothers’ blood, Miss Hester — but 
neither of them were killed; and when that young man died, the 
ring came back to the hall by a strange messenger, though it had 
been sold to buy bread. And so it has been ever since. When 
there w’ere more than two sons in Cottiswoode, there was less harm 
— but that has only been twice in all the history of the house. 
Brother has wmrred against brother. Miss Hester, from Edgar the 
Scholar’s time, down to Mr. Brian and your papa; but one way or 
another, dear, the ring has come back to the house, and never gone 
to any but the second son of Cottiswoode till now. MBien your 
papa was master here, he put it away, and maybe he thought the 
curse was past ; but tnem that knew the tale, knew well that the 
curse would not be past till there was a born heir, and only one son 


HE DAYS OE 31 Y LIFE. 


136 

in the house. And when the present young squire came, yop'papa 
put on the ring again; it goes to my heart to see you wear it, jMiss 
Hester. It never was but a token of evil— 1 think it put thoughts 
of strife into the mind of every one that ever wore it; thoughts and 
examples of ill, darling, and we’re all too ready to follow iniquity — 
God help and preserve us! and that is the story of the ring.” 

” But, Alice, tell me again— how is it to be lost?” 1 asked anx- 
iousl}'’. 

” When there is but one heir, and no second son; and when love 
and peace is in the house of Cottiswoode, and those that are nearest 
in blood and dearest in heart; then the ring that never could be lost 
before, will fall from the hand of a born Southcote, and never be 
seen again- -that is the prophecy. Miss Hester,” said Alice, ‘‘ and it 
I saw it come to pass, 1 would give thanks to God.” 

1 was much excited by this story — it threw a strange weird ghostly 
romance about us and our race. 1 fitted the ring closer upon the 
forefinger of my left hand, and held it up sparkling, with its living 
quivering radiance, in the firelight. 

For myself, I felt no desire to lose it— it had gained a supersti- 
tious importance in my eyes* 1 resolved to keep it sacred, and pre- 
serve forever, as my father had bidden me, this strange inheritance, 
1 was not pleased with my exemption, as a woman, from its magic 
power— women, as 1 had cause to know, were quite as accessible to 
passions of resentment, and even to the desire for revenge, as men 
were — and 1 should have been belter satisfied had there been some 
place for me in this grand system of family vengeance. With a 
different, yet a stronger interest, 1 looked up at the picture of Edgar 
the Scholar, with its contemplative student face, and pensive eyes. 

How strange that this man should be the origin of such bitter 
retribution — for it was very bitter, pitiless, almost fiend-like, an in- 
heritance of animosity to be borne by brothei against brother. I 
wondered as 1 looked up at the regular calm features, the undis- 
turbed refined face— 1 could see no cruelty in it, as it looked down 
upon me thoughtfully from the familiar wall. 

” It should be called the star of strife, and not of misfortune, 
Alice,” I said. 

‘‘ It has been of misfortune, too,” she answered; ‘‘ never one has 
thriven with that ring upon his finger; there never is strife in a 
house, dear, but trouble comes. They say the lands are not half so 
great as when that diamond came to Cotliswoode, and though it’s a 
precious stone itself. Miss Hester, it’s never been reckoned in the 
wealth of this house. There’s violent death, there’s great grief and 
sin, there’s losses and misfortunes among the 8outhcotes ever since 
it came; and the second son of Cottiswoode has never had children 
to leive it to. 1 never heard of one that gave it to his own child 
but your papa.” 

Once more we relapsed into silence. I had a new subject for rny 
thoughts in Alice’s tale; and, perhaps, it may be thought strange 
that 1 should receive it with such entire faith. But family supS*- 
sticions have always a great hold upon the imagination. It is hard 
to disbelieve stories that come to us on the voucher of our own an- 
cestors, and wbich are part of the family creed, and concern the 
whole race; even without these claims upon my attention, 1 think i 


THE DAYS OF Ml" LIFE. 


137 

should have at once believed and leceived this story. 1 was quite 
in the mood for it— and though 1 did not fear “ ghosts,” nor show 
any of the popular signs, 1 had a natural tinge of superstition in my 
mind. 

But Alice warned me how Jate it was, and 1 had to go upstairs 
with her to dress. I cared nothing about my dress, i suffered her 
to adorn me as she would. But 1 would wear no ornaments — not 
that bracelet — nothing but the storied and fatal ring. Like a real 
star it glittered on my finger— catching the ruddy gleam of the fire-- 
light, and shining in the darkened air of the winter twilight. He 
could not know this story, and 1 could not tell him of it— it was 
very strange to be so near, yet so far apart. 

When I went down to dinner, Mr. Saville was there. It was a 
relief, yet it piqued me that he should ask any one to come on the 
first day, though how we could have met alone at table in our sul- 
len estrangement i can not tell. The rector was in a very precise 
clerical dress; his manners were a great deal too fine and careful tor 
a man of breeding, and im seemed to be so much alive to his ” posi- 
tion,” and so careful to keep it up, that I perceived at once that he 
must have been raised to this, that he was not a gentleman, either 
by birth or early training. By some strange logic 1 tlmught of this 
as of an additional offense to me. 1 did not care to inquire what 
my husband’s motives had been in giving the living to this person. 
1 did not take time to think that probably he had been appointed 
before Edgar Southcote had conceived his plan for my deception, 
1 thought he had meant to insult me by surrounding me thus with 
his mean relatives, and depriving me even of the comfort of a suita- 
ble neighbor; but 1 was resolved to show him that 1 was above this 
mortification, and all the more freely, because I said nothing to him, 
did 1 converse with the rector, fie told me of the church which 
wanted repairs— he said restoration, but 1 was not acquainted with 
the ecclesiastical science so fashionable at the time — he told me that 
his sister had begun to embroider a cloth for the altar —that the very 
vestments, the sacred vessels for the altar— everything was falling 
to decay — that the last rector, ‘‘a worthy man, he believed, but 
lamentably lax in his church principles,” had whitewashed the in- 
terior of "the unfortunate church— had barbarously removed the 
remnants of an ancient screen of carved stone-work — and had taken 
up a mutilated brass in the chancel, and laid down a plain flagstone 
in its stead; which things, Mr. Saville said pathetically, had so much 
disgusted the people, that there really had arisen a Dissenting place 
of worship in this formerly orthodox village, and his people were 
led astray from the true path under his very eyes. Had Mr. Saville 
told me of an epidemic raging in Cottisbourne, of some deadly dis- 
ease abroad, and no one bold enough to nurse the patients, 1 should 
have been more satisfied— but such things would arise no doubt; 
and, in the meantime, 1 should have been glad to have worked with 
my own hands at the restorations, if these were necessary, though, 
alas, 1 was disappointed, and could not feel that there was any mar- 
tyrdom in making an altar-cloth. 

All the conversation during dinner was carried on between the 
rector and myself. My husband scarcely spoke; he looked at us 
eagerly, keenly, as if he would have read my thoughts. 1 could 


138 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


peiceive what was passing in his mind; he had given up the Hester 
of his imagination, as 1 had given up the Harry of mine; and he 
was trying: to make himself acquainted with what ). was now. 

When I returned alone to the drawing-room, and once more sat 
down by the fire, a pang of pain and self-reproach came over me lor 
a moment, as I thought what a great change had indeed passed 
upon me, and how unlike 1 was to my former self. But then I 
asked who caused this, and once more established myself on my old 
'ground. When the gentlemen joined me again, I resumed my con- 
versation with the rector — and now at last he propounded something 
which suited my views. 

“ There are a number of old people in the village,” he said, 

some bedridden, some palsied, a burden upon their children, and 
imperfectly attended to in the midst of more clamorous claims. ]My 
sister has long had the idea of placing herself at the liead of a sort 
of almshouse, where those poor creatures could be nursed and taken 
care of. My sister is an energetic person, Mrs. Southcote, and 
though, of course, like other ladies, accustomed to verj’- different 
pursuits, has a natural love for work, and great tenderness to her 
fellow-creatures. She thinks with the assistance of a few kind- 
hearted ladies, hired help might almost be dispensed with — an apos- 
tolic work, Mrs. Southcote — washing the feet of the poor.” 

“Ah, yes! that is what 1 wanted to hear of,” 1 said, “ who is 
your sister, Mr. Saville— is she here?” 

“ 1 am surprised that Mr. Southcote has not informed you, ma- 
dam,” said the clergyman, with momentary acrimony, “ my sister. 
Miss Saville, resides with me, and as a near neighbor naturally looked 
for an introduction to you— a relative, too, 1 may say, by mar- 
riage,” he concluded, with a ceremonious bow. 

1 felt my cheeks burn— but 1 subdued my pride of blood. “ 1 
shall call on her to-morrow,” 1 said. 

“Nay, permit me,” said Mr. Saville, with another bow, “Miss 
Saville is the oldest resident in the parish— she will have pleasure in 
calling on 3mu.” 

Again my natural hauteur almost got the better of me. So! I 
was to be on ceremoniously stately terms with Miss Saville, as 
though we were potentates of equal rank and importance— and rela- 
tives, too! 

“ She will have the greatest satisfaction in communicating all her 
plans to you,” continued the clergyman, “Mr. Southcote would 
have had her come to night; but my sister wras too w^ell awmre how 
indecorous such an intrusion on your privacy w'ould be. Ladies un- 
derstand the regulations of society much better than w^e do.” 

In pure mockery, 1 bowed to Mr. Saville as ceiemoniously as he 
bow'ed to me; but there was a great deal of bitterness in my satirical 
courtesy, which he, good man, tooK in perfect earnest. My hus- 
band had been standing by a little table, where was a vase of beau- 
tiful hot-house flowers, which it must have been some trouble to get 
for me- -and was pulling the costly blossoms to pieces, as if he did 
not know what he was about. When he saw the curl of my lip, as 
1 bowed to his relation, he came forward hastily and began to con- 
verse with him. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


139 

How much indebted 1 was to ]VIr. Soulhcote! how much disap- 
pointed that Miss Saville had not coemel 


THE SEVENTH DAY. 

We had just set out together to begin our work. It was a raw- 
winter day, damp and foggy, and the heavy haze fell wlnte and 
stifling over our fiat fields, but was not dense enough to liide the 
dreary line of road, nor the dull depths of distance round us. We 
were dressed in great cloaks and hoods of dark gray ch>th, with 
small black bonnets under our hoods; and each ol us carried a 
basket— while ^liss Saville had a little leathern case, containintr- 
medicines, hanging from the girdle round her waist. Sfie was a tallt 
stiff woman, with a frosty face, and angular, thin frame. 1 can not 
tell how she looked in siimmei— very much out of place, 1 should 
think— for this dull, foggy, cold day seemed too gentle for her, and 
you could fancy a keen frosty wind constantly blowing in her face. 
Her manners were hke her brother’s, very fine and elaborate at 
first: but by and by she forgot, as he never did, tliat she was talking 
to Mrs. Southcoteof Cottiswoode, and began to tell me of her plans^ 
as she might have told any ignorant girl, and showed no special 
respect for me. When she came to her natural tone, 1 could not 
help iKjiug better pleased with her. She was much more in my way 
than the Reverend Mr. Saville was. She did not say a word about 
charity or benevolence; but she told me how she intended to man- 
age the old people, and how, wuth one servant, and a lady coming 
to help her every day, she could keep a home for them all together, 
and keep them comfortable, if the means were provided for her. 

“Extremely disagreeable work, 1 don’t doubt, for you dainty 
youug tolks,” said Miss Saville, who no longer thought it necessary 
to pick her language; “ but 1 had my own old father to mind for 
long enough, and it’s notning to me.” 

“ Disagreeable!” said I, “ what does it matter? 1 wonder what, 
right we have to agreeable things!” 

*’ Well — I am glad you think so!” said Miss Saville, with n grim 
smile. “ You will be the more thankful for wiiat has fallen to 
your share; for .very few' people, 1 can tell you, have to provide 
disagreeables for themselves, as you have. They are almost all 
ready-made, and not very well liked w’hen they come.” 

1 liad nothing to say to this. Nor could 1 have expected that she 
wmuld understand me. We were walking quickly— and it required 
no small exertion to keep up with Miss Saville, wlio strode along in 
her thick boots with a manly disregard of every obstacle — along the 
lane which led to tliK village. Just before we reached Gottis- 
bourne, we passed the Rector 3 ^ JMiss Saville looked up at it as she 
passed, and so did I. 1 was startled to see a face looking out from 
the window, which 1 recognized, or iancied 1 recognized It was 
a w'cather-beaten face, unshaven and slovenly, and stooped forw'ard 
with an inquisitive, sidelong glance. 1 tried to recollect where 1 
liad seen'4i; Could this be Saville — the Saville — the man who brought 
Edgar Southcote to Cottiswoode? I w’as disposed to think iro. My 


140 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


companion gazed at him a moment, and then waved her hand im- 
patiently, as if to bid the man go from the window. Yet 1 had 
been now three weeks at Cottiswoode, had frequently seen the clergy- 
man and his sister, but had never heard of another. 1 wondered 
why they concealed him— 1 wondered if it was him; but Miss Saville 
ofiered no explanation. 

We were close upon the village now. The first group in advance 
—two or three separate houses — stood by themselves upon the brown 
gra{5S of the meadow-land around. They seemed to have no war- 
dens, no trees, nothing to protect or shelter them; but stood apart 
among the grass, which pressed round their very walls and door- 
steps, as if it grudged the little bit of ground they occupied. There 
were some plants in the window of almost every house— poor, shabby 
plants, crushed against the green gauze curtain suspended across 
the three lower panes, darkening the light; but doing little else by 
way of compensation. The want of gardens seemed to disconnect 
these cottages strangely from the soil on which they stood. There 
was no beauty or sentiment about them; but only very poor, meager, 
hungry poverty. Beyond them, a very small stream, which made 
no sound in the heavy, deadened atmosphere, wound through a 
field, with some low willows standing by, like a class of unkempt 
boys at school. A little further on, withdrawn into a grassy recess, 
w^as the village well, with its bucket and windlass and then came 
Cottisbourne proper, a cluster of houses oddly placed, with strange 
little narrow lanes winding among them, as intricate as a child’s 
puzzle: some brown and dingy, with the thatched root clinging 
upon them like a growth of nature — some brilliantly white-washed, 
with great patches of damp, from the rain, upon their walls. One 
or two carts tilted up, stood in a corner of the common which be- 
longed to the village. About them, and in them, were a number of 
children, whose voices scarcely woke the sullen air to cheerfulness. 
The houses stood about in genuine independence, every one facing 
as it pleased him, and the wealthy cottager’s pig sniffed the same air 
as his master, and placidly meditated upon the iloinus of his mas- 
ter’s next neighbor, whose open cottage door was opposite the 
pigger}^ There surely was no want of work for anyone who cared 
to take in hand the reformation of the little commonwealth of 
Cottisbourne. 

Miss Saville proceeded to business while 1 looked on. She went 
forward to the children in the cart and lugged down the reckless 
urchins who were clambering into it, just in tirne to prevent an ac- 
cident, as the heavy body of the cart, high in the air, where they 
had been climbing,^ was suddenly thrown off its balance and came 
down heavily, doing no harm, thanks to her exertions. “ You little 
foolish things!” cried the excited lady, ” how often have 1 told 
you not to go near these shocking thiigs? you might all have been 
killed; I can’t be always looking after you; if Jemmie Mutton had 
been killed when that cart fell, w^hat do you think you w’ould have 
done then?” 

Not one of the little culprits was able to reply to this solemn 
question— and she continued, as they gaped at her, clustering to- 
gether, stealing their hands underneath their pinafores or putting 
finger in mouth, with awe and astonishment: Depend upon it, 1 


THE DATS OE MY LIFE. 


141 

shall make examples,” said Miss Saville, with solemnity, ” Christ- 
mas is not so far off that 1 should forget wliat you are about now, 
and if 1 should hear of such a thing again, beware!” 

Saying this, in the tone of a lord chief justice, with an awful 
vagueness of expression, and penalties inferred which only the 
threatened offenders knew the weight and import of Miss Saville 
turned to enter a cottage. ” I am obliged to keep them in awe of 
me, my dear,” she said, turning to me with complacent satisfac- 
tion, ” and even to threaten them about their Christmas things. 
Some of them get quite an outfit of things when they attend school 
well, and say their catechisms; but children are a deal of trouble — 
the little good for nothings! they’re at it again!” 

1 was amused at Miss Saville’s contest with the children, yet some- 
what disgusted withal. Like other visionaries, I was horrified when 
I descended to practice, or to see practiced, what I had been dream- 
ing. Even sweet beautiful docile children would have been out of 
my way, and unwelcome substitutes for the harder heroic labors on 
which 1 had set my heart. But stupid children — children who 
gaped and courtesied — who folded their hands under their pinafores, 
and played in carts, and were held in terror of losing their annual 
dole at Christmas! this was quite a different martyrdom from what 
1 dreamed of; my vocation certainly did not lie here. 

However, we had now entered the cottage — it w'as very poor, 
and had a sort of sota or settle near the fire, on which was laid an 
old paralytic woman, whose shaking head and hand proclaimed, 
at once, how she was afflicted. A stout tall woman, the mistress 
of the cottage, went and came about the poor room, preparing the 
dinner, 1 suppose, but taking no apparent notice of the invalid, 
whose feeble half-articulate voice seemed to run on nevertheless iu 
an unfailing stream; and there was an eagerness in her gray bleared 
eye which testified that this old woman, at least, though she had 
lost everything else, had not lost her interest in the world. She 
assailed us with a flood of imperfect words, which I could scarcely 
make out, but which seemed easy to Miss Savilk, and showed a 
craving for news, anil restless curiosity, which appeared very dread- 
ful to me in this old, old woman. “So she’s corned home!” she 
said, and 1 knew she referred to me, ” does she know her own mind 
by this time? Ah, ah, ah! it do make poor folks laugh, to see the 
ways of the quality that never know when they’re well.” 

” Hold your peace, Sally,” said Miss Saville, imperatively, ” the 
lady herself has taken the trouble to come from Cottiswoode to see 
you, you ungrateful old woman — and to see what she can do for 
you, to make you more comfortable— do you hear? You ought to 
thank her and show some feeling— but 1 am sure you poor folks iu 
Cambridgeshire are the most ungrateful in the world.” 

” The oW folks you mean, miss,” said the youngp woman. 

“You call her miss, ye unmannerly wench,” said the mother- 
in-la\^ chuckling, “Madam Saville,! know you— 1 know naught 
of the young one. Make me comfortable! I’m an old poor crittur, 
past my work, and J’ve had a stroke; and I want rest to my old 
bones. But them young uns, that’s able to stir about, and help 
themselves, they think aught’s good eno’ for me.” 

She began to whimper as she spoke. Alas— alas I the heroism of 


142 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


my vocation bad deserted me. I felt nothing but dfegnst for the 
miserable old woman. 1 could not endure lo go near her or touch 
her— it sickened me to think of the proposed asylum, and of doing 
menial services with my own hands to such a creature as this. 

But Miss Saville was unmoved. 1 suppose she had no elevated 
ideas of self-martyrdom. 

Well then, Sally, that is just what 1 came to speak about,” she 
said, ” you’re in the way in your son’s house— and you feel you’re 
in the way.” 

‘‘ Who said it? was’t Tilda there?” cried the old woman fierce- 
ly. ” I’ll make him wallop her— that 1 will, when the lad comes 
home! Where is an old woman to be welcome but with her chil- 
dren? Oh! you sarpent! it’s ail along o’ 5 ^ 011 .” 

“ Matilda never said a word about it,” said the peremptory Miss 
Saville, ” she has a great deal of patience with you, poor thing; for 
you’re an ill-tempered old woman! Be quiet. Sail}", and listen to 
me. How should you like to be taken to a new house, and have all 
your little comforts attended lo, and a room to yourself, and ladies 
to take care of you, eh? 1 should have charge of you, j^ou under- 
stand, and this good young lady from the Hall, and others likelier, 
would come every day to help me. What should you say to that, 
Sally?” 

The .younger woman, with unequivocal tokens of interest, had 
drawn nearer to listen; and was standing leaning across the table, 
with her face turned toward us. Sally did not answer at first — and 
1 watched the eager gleam of her old bleared eyes, and the nodding 
of her palsied head, in silence. 

” 1 don’t knaew,” saidtheold woman, ‘‘ she’d be glad, i daresay; 
but am 1 agwoin to be put out of my way to please Tilda? she’d a’ 
put me in the house if I’d a’ gone. I’ll not have no prison as long as 
my Jim has a roof over his head. I’m not agwoin to die. 1 wants 
to hear the news and the talk, as well as another. 1 wants none o^ 
your fine rooms to lie all by mysel, and never see naught but ladies 
—ladies! You’re gi-and, and you think poor folks worship you; but 
l‘d rather see old Betty Higgins to come and tell me the news.” 

‘‘ If that is all you have to say, Sally, we had better leave you,’* 
said Miss Saville. ‘‘ You shocking old woman, do you think you 
will live forever? You’ll soon get news from a w"orse place than 
this world if you don’t mind.” 

” I’ll send for the parson when I’ve made up my mind to it, that 
I’m agwoin to die,” said Sally; “but here, give it tome, lady! 
don’t give it to Tilda— she’ll spend it on her own and never think 
on the old woman. AVell, you’ve a soft hand; where’s your wfiite 
bonnet and your white veil, and all your grandeur? VYhat’s the 
good of coming to poor folks all muffled up like madam there? 
You're no show, 3 "ou’re not — you should have come like a picture. 
Here, Tilda, get me some brandy and a drop o’ tea, and tell Betty 
Higgins to come and sit by me w"hile you’re gone,” 

1 retreated w ith a shudder when she dropped my hand. Her cold 
touch sickened me, and 1 could not bear the sharp twinkling of 
those feelingless eyes, and the palsied motion of her head, as she 
looked into my face, and spoke to me. 1 was very glad to escape 
from the cottage when poor Tilda, a subdued, broken-hearted 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


143 


'woman, not very tidy, went away to execute her commission. 1 
was very much shocked on Ihe borders of my new enterprise, ver}’' 
much disgusted, and almost staggered in iuy 'purpose. Yes! i had 
thought of nursing the sick and taking care of the aged; but 1 did 
not think of such sordid, selfish, wretched old age as this. 

And yet these were my own people — old retainers and dependants 
of the house. 1 had not been without acquaintances among the cot- 
tagers, when 1 was a girl at Cottiswoode— but I recognized tew of 
the blank faces which stared at me now. As we threaded the 
strange narrow turnings, from cottage to cottage, 1 had to make no 
smali effort to remind myself that this was "clearly my business. 
Unpleasant! how 1 scorned the word and myself for thinking of it 
— what was pleasure to me? 

Miss Saville had not been silent all this time, though 1 paid no 
great attention to her. She was not disgusted; she had been accus- 
tomed to such scenes, and took them with perfect coolness— and 1 
was astonished to find that she w’as not even displeased, nor inclined 
to shut out this wretched old Sally from the benefits of her asylum. 

“ You must not mind what that thankless old creature says,” 
said Miss Saville. ” 1 know how to deal with them; and poor Ma- 
tilda would be a happy woman if that old tyrant was away. Leave 
her to me to manage. I promise you, she’ll not struggle long with 
me.” 

But I only shuddered with disgust. 1 could not anticipate very 
heroically my own promised assistance to wait upon this old Sully. 

We were now at another cottage, where the door was closed, and 
we had to knock for admittance. It was opened by an elderly 
woman, fresh complexioned, yet careworn, with scissors and pin- 
cushion hanging by her side, arid some 'work in her hand. The 
furniture of the little room was very scanty, and not very orderly, 
but clean enough, and from the cuttings and thread upon the floor, 
the litter on the little deal table, and the work in the woman’s 
hand, 1 saw that she must be the village dressmaker. The low^er 
part of the window, as usual, was screened by h coarse curtain of 
green gauze, and three flower -pots with dingy geraniums stood on 
the window-sill, with prayer-book and a work-box, anil a range of 
reels of cotton standing between. Here, as in the previous cottage, 
an old woman occupied the coiner by the fire; but this one was 
placed in a large wooden elbow chair, gay with a cover of cotton 
print, wliich had been a gown before it came to its present prefer- 
ment — and was lidily dressed, and had some knitting in ner hands 
A girl of twelve sat by the table helping her mother— a younger one 
was vyashing potatoes in a corner, while a little girl of three or four, 
sitting on the corner of the fender close to the fire, seemed to be 
exerting her powers for the general entertainment ot the industrious 
family*^ When we entered, the mistress of the house, after her first 
greeting to Miss Saville, stepped aside to let us enter, and looked 
earnestly at me. The signs of her occupation helped me to a remem- 
brance of her. 1 looked at her with puzzled curiosity, trying to 
recall the changed face in its wddow’s cap. 

” Miss Hester!” she cried, ” 1 humbly beg your pardon, ma’am, 
but I made sure it was you.” 

She courtesied again and again, and seemed so unaffectedly glad, 


144 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


tliat my heart wanned in spite of myself. Miss Saville was quite 
thrown into the shade. The children made their little courtesies, the 
old woman endeavored to rise, a cbaii was carefully wiped by poor 
Mary’s apron, and placed between the window and the fire for me; 
and granny made a moaning explanation of “ lier rheumatiz, that 
made ber unmannerly.” 1 was restored to satisfaction. 1 do not 
think 1 had been so much pleased since J, came to Cottiswoode^ 
Yes! these were my own people. 

“ We’ve had a deal of trouble, miss— ma’am — a deal of trouble, 
said Mary, putting the corner of her apron to her eyes. ” There 
was first poor Tom Jlell ill and died, and all the little uns had the 
fever, and grann}'' tooK the rheumatiz so bad, that she never can 
move out of her chair. It’s been hard to get the bit and the sun for 
them all, lady. But now Alice gets a big wench, and little Jane 
goes of errands, and Farmer Giles gives ’em a day’s work now and 
again weeding and gathering stones; and I’m a bit easier in my 
mind — but, oh! it’s been hard days in Coltisbourne since you and 
the good old squire went away.” 

I knew no reason Mary had to call my father the good old squire; 
yet 1 was pleased with the appellation. ” Come to the ^dall, Mary, 
and Alice will see if theie is anything for you,” 1 said, ” and you 
must tell me what poor old granny wants, and w^hat 1 can do for her. 
Granny, do you recollect nie?” 

‘‘ 1 recklect your grandmamma, miss,” said the old woman, ” bet- 
ter than you — that was the lady! she stood for my Susan, next to 
Mary, that 1 buried fifty years come Witsuntide. 1 kneaw all the 
family, 1 do. 1 recklect the young gentlemen, and Mr. Brian, that 
never had his rights. This squire is his son, they tell me. Well, 
you’ve corn’d and married him, miss, and 1 bless the day; every- 
thing’s agwoin on right now. The Southcote blood’s been kind to 
me and mine, and 1 wish well of it, wishing ye joy, miss, and a 
welcome home.” 

1 bowed my head in silent bitterness. Wishing me joy! what a 
satire it seemed. 

” Are you very busy, Mary?” said Miss Saville. ” Now do you 
think, if Alice had not come to school, and been taught her duty, she 
would have sat there so quietly, helping her mother? 1 don’t be- 
lieve anything of the kind.” 

” Thanlv you all the same, ma’am— it done her a deal of good 
going to school,” said Mary, with a submissive, yet resolute court- 
es3% •' but she always was a good child.” 

” I don’t say she’s a good child now— she’s doing no more tliau 
her duty,” said Miss Saville with a peremptory little nod; ” there’s 
nothing worse for children than to praise them to their laces. There’s 
that boy of yours — not half an hour ago, it 1 had not been at hand, 
he might have broken his neck, clambering into William Fairfoul’s 
cart, on the edge of the common. 1 am sure, how these children 
escape with their lives, with nobody to look after them, is a con- 
stant wonder to me.” 

“ I-’roviilence is always a-minding after them,” said Mary, poor 
folk’s children is not like rich folks; and my boy can take a knock 
as well as another— I’m not afraid.” 

” Well, now 1 have something to tell you of,” said Miss Saville. 


THE HAYS OF MY LIFE. 


145 

“ Since Mrs. Soutlicote 1ms come home, she wishes to do good to 
you all like a Chrisliau lad}'; and I’m going to take a house, or have 
one built liere at Cotlisbourne, and live in it myself, and take care 
of the old people who are helpless and a burden on I heir families. 
Mrs. Southcote and other good ladies will come to help me, and the 
old folks shall be well taken care of, and have comtortable rooms 
and beds, and be a burden to nobod}'. What do you say to that, 
granny? Mary has plenty to do with her own family, and 1 daie 
say doesn’t always get much lime to mind you— and* you’d be off 
her hands, and make her easier in her mind — for L am sure you 
know very well how much she’s got to do.” 

A shrili hoo-hoo of feeble, yet vehement sobbing interrupted this 
speech. “ I’m a poor old soul,” said the hysterical voice of granny; 
” but I toiled for her and her children, when 1 had some strength 
left, and I do what 1 can in my old days — God help me! My poor 
bit o’ bread and my tatie— a baby ’ud eat as much as me. Lord 
help us! you don’t go for to say my own child would grudge me 
that?” 

” Folks had best not meddle with other folks’ business,” said 
Mary, with an angry glance toward Miss Saville. ” You mind your 
knitting, mother, and don’t mind what strangers say. You ladies 
is hard-hearted, that’s the truth— though you mean kind — begging 
youi pardon, ma’am,” she said, with a courtesy to me; ‘‘ but I work 
cheerful for my mother — 1 kneaw I do. 1 no more grudge her nor 
I grudge little Polly, by the fire. She’s been a good mother to me, 
and never spared her trouble; and ne’er a one of the childer but 
would want their supper sooner than miss granny from the corner. 
And for all so feeble as she is, there’s a deal of life m her,” said 
Mary, once more putting up to her eyes the corner of her apron. 
” She’ll tell the litlte uns’ stories till it’s wonderful to hear— and 
talks out o’ the Bible of Sundays, that the parson himself might be 
the better— and knits at her slocking all the week through. They 
knaews little that says my mother's a burden. Alice ’ud break her 
heart if she hadn’t granny to do for every day.” 

“ Well! 1 must say 1 think it very ungrateful of ybu,” said Miss 
Saville, ” when 1 undertake she should be well taken care of, and 
Mrs. Southcote W'ould come to see her almost every day. You’re a 
thankless set of people in Cottisbourne. You do not know when 
people try to do you good. There’s old Sally—” 

‘‘ A ou don’t name my mother with old Sally then?” cried Mary, 
witn indignation. ” You wouldn’t put the likes of her under a 
good root! 1 won’t hear you speak, ma’am — 1 won’t indeed! My 
mother and old Sally — in one house!” 

” 1 think it possible,” said Miss Saville, with a little asperity, ‘‘ that 
God might choose to take even old Sally to Heaven. She’s a 
naughty old woman — a cross, miserable old creature — and what she’d 
do there, if she was as she is, 1 can’t tell. But God has never said, 
so far as 1 know, ‘ old Sally sha’n’t come to Heaven.’ ” ^ 

This rebuke cast poor Mary into silence. She continued in a 
tremulous, half defiant, half convinced stale for a few minutes, and 
then wiped her eyes again, and answered in a low lone — 

” 1 wouldn’t be uuneighborly, nor uncharitable neither — and God 
knows the heart; but my mother and old Sally wouldn’t agree, no- 


146 THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

ways — and I’d work my fingers to the bone sooner than let granny 
SO-” 

“ You must take your own way, ot course,” said Miss Saville. 
” I only wanted to befriend you, my good woman. ]No— I’m not 
offended, and 1 don’t suppose Mrs. Southcote is either. What we 
propose is real kindness both to granny and you— but, oh no! don’t 
tear— there are plenty who would be glad of it.” 

Mary turned to me with a troubled glance; she thought that per- 
haps her balked benefactor was angry with her too. 

” Is there anything granny would like— or you, Mary? Could 1 
help yonV' said 1. ‘‘ Is there anything 1 could do myself for you?” 

MaVy made a very humble, reverential courtesy. 

” You’re only too good, ma’am,” said Mary. ” There’s always 
a many things wanted in a small family. I’d be thankful of work, 
miss, it you "could trust it to me, and do my best to please — and 
Alice is very handy, and does plain hemming and sewing beautiful. 
Show the lady your work, Alice. If there were any plain things, 
ma’am, to do — ” 

” But, Mary, 1 am sure you have too much to do already. 1 
would rather help you to do what you have, than give you more 
w'ork,” said 1. 

Mary looked up at me with a startled glance, and then with a 
smile. 

” Bless jmur kind heart, lady! work’s nat’ral to me— pleasure is 
for the rich, and labor’s for the poor, and I’m content. I’d sooner 
sit working than go pleasuring; but it’s another thing willi the likes 
ot you.” 

Miss Saville was already at the door, and somewhat impatient of 
this delay— so 1 hurried after her, arranging with Mary that she was 
to come that afternoon to Alice at Cottiswoode. When we got out 
of the house. Miss ISaville took me to task immediately. 

” You don’t understand the people, my dear,” said Miss Saville. 
‘‘Mary was very right about the work: it’s far better to give em- 
ployment thaii to give charity — and that’s not to saire your purse, 
but to keep up their honest feelings. They’re independent when 
the3'’re working for themselves, and they’re bred up to work all 
their life, and as for you to speak ot going to help them, it would 
only make them uneasy, and be unsuitable lor you.” 

‘‘But 1 wish to help them— and giving work to Mary does not 
stand in the place ot working myself,” said 1, with a little petu- 
lance. 

‘‘ Oh! of course, if you want to do it for pleasure that’s quite a 
different thing— but 1 really don’t understand that,” said Miss 
Saville, abruptly. 

“Ldo not wish It for pleasure,” said I, growing almost angr}’’; 
hut 1 did not choose to explain myself to her, and it was a good 
thing that she should confess that she did not understand me. 

We visited a number ot poor houses after this, but I found noth- 
ing encouraging in any of them. There were one or two old people 
found who were quite willing to be received into Miss Saville’s asy- 
lum— they were all poor stupid old rustics, helpless with some in- 
firmity, but 1 did not find that there was anything heroic now in 
the prospect of waiting upon and serving them, it was not courage 


THE DAYS OF' MY LIFE. 147 

noi daring, nor any high and lofly quality Jvhich would be required 
for such an undertaking, but patience— patience, pity, and indeed a 
certain degree ol insensibility, qualities which 1 neither had nor 
coveted— 1 was much discontented with my day’s experience. 1 
was known and recognized latterlj^ wherever w'e went, and though 
1 had no recollection ot the majority ot the claimants ot my tormer 
acquaintance, 1 was very ready to give them money, and did so to 
Uie great annoyance oi J\Iiss Saville. As w^e threaded our way through 
the muddy turnings, she lectured me on the evils ot indiscriminate 
almsgiving, while J, for my part, painfully pondered wdiat 1 had to 
do with these people, or what 1 could do for them. Though 1 had 
read a good deal, and thought a little, 1 was still very ignorant. 1 
had a vague idea, even now in my disappointment, w-hen 1 found 1 
could not do what 1 wanted, that 1 ought to do something— that 
these people belonged to us, and had a right to attention at our 
hands. But 1 could not lift the cotiages and place them in better 
order, nor arrange those encumbered and narrow bits of path. 
Could 1 do nothing but give tliem money? I was much discom- 
forted, puzzled, and distressed. .Miss Saville plodded along method- 
ically in her thick boots, perceiving what her business was, and 
doing it as every-day work should be done— but there was no room 
here lor martyrdom — and 1 could not tell what to do. 


THE EIGHTH DAY. 

Visitors! 1 did not know how to receive them; and not only vis- 
itors but relatives ot my own— of my mother’s — her only remaining 
kindred. 1 w'ent down with a flutter at my heart to see my un- 
known kin. He was wuth them, Alice told me, and 1 composed 
mys(4f as well as 1 could before entering the room; for by this time 
we had grown to a dull uncommunicating antagonism, and his pres- 
ence stimulated me to command myself. It was past Christmas 
now, and we had spent more than two months in this system of 
mutual torture. We had been once or twice asked out, and had 
gone, and behaved ourselves so as not to betray the full extent of 
the breach between us; but we asked no one to our house— a house 
in which dwell such a skeleton — and nobody can fancy how intoler- 
able this dreary tete-a-tUe, in wdiich each of us watched tlie other, 
and no one spoke save for the few necessary formalities of the table, 
became every day — yet how every day we began in the same course, 
never seeking to separate— keeping together as pertinaciously as a 
couple of lovers, and with the strangest fascination in the silent con- 
test. To look back upon this time is like a nightmare to me. 1 
feel the heavy stifling shadow, the suppressed feverish excitement, 
the constant expectation, and strain of self-control, wiien 1 think of 
it. 1 wonder one of us was not crazed by the prolonged ordeal; 1 
think a few da 3 's of it would make me frantic now. 

1 stood for a moment at the door listening to their voices before 1 
entered — thej’ were cordial sincere voices, pleasant to hear, and in 
spite of myself 1 brightened at the kiiidly sounds. There were three 
of them, father, mother, and daughter— and when 1 entered the 


148 


THE DAYS OF MY" LIFE. 


room, the first thing 1 saw was a pretty, sweet girlish face, very 
much like the portrait which Mr. Osborne gave me ot my mother, 
looking up, all smiles and dimples, at my husband. I can not tell 
how it happened, but for the moment it struck me what a much 
more pleasant home this Cottiswoode would have been, had that 
sunny face presided over it— and what a dull sullen heavy counte- 
nance in comparison was the clouded and unhappy face which 
glanced back at me as I glanced at the mirror. 1 wondered what 
he thought on the subject, or if it had crossed his fancy — but, 1 had 
no time to pursue the question, for suddenly I was overwhelmed in 
Ihe shawl and the embrace of a large kind smiling woman, the 
mother ot this girl. 

She held me by the hands after the first salutation, and looked at 
my mourning dress and my pale cheeks— and said, “ poor dear !” 
She was herself very gay in an ample matronly finery — with satin 
skirts, and a great rich shawl, and with a width and a warmth in 
her embrace, and a soft faint perfume about her which were quite 
new to me. Her fingers were soft, large, pink, and delicate; her 
touch was a positive pleasure. There are some people who make 
you conscious of your own appearance by the strange contrast 
which you feel it bears to theirs. Mrs. Ennerdale was one ot these; 
1 felt how cloudy, how dull, how unreal 1 was, living on imag- 
inary rights and wrongs, and throwing my life away, when 1 felt 
myself within the warm pressure of these kindly human arms. 

Mr. Ennerdale was a oquire like other squires, a hearty comfort- 
able country gentleman, with nothing much to distinguish him from 
his class — he shook hands with me very warmly, and looked still 
more closely in my face than his wife had done. “ You're a little 
like your mother, Mrs. Southcote,” he said in a disappointed tone, 
as he let me go. I might have been when i was happy; but I cer- 
tainly was not now. 

And then Flora came to me, shyly but frankly — holding my hand 
with a lingering light clasp, as it she expected a warmer salutation 
from her new-found cousin. She was a year younger than 1, very 
pretty, very fresh and sweet liKe a half-blown roseT She tO(.k her 
place upon a low chair close by me, and kept her sweet blue eyes on 
my face when 1 spoke, and looked at me with grea^ interest and re- 
spectfulness Poor young innocent Flora!— she did not wonder that 
1 looked ill, or question what was the matter with me. She was 
not skilled, nor could discriminate between unhappiness and grief. 

It was not jealousy that crossed my mind, nor anything approach- 
ing to it. 1 only could not help fancying to myse f how different 
everything would have been had she been mistress of Cottiswoode 
—how bright the house — how happy the master. It was a pleasure 
to look at her innocent face, I admired her as only women can ad- 
mire each other. I was not shy of looking at her as a man might 
have been. I had a pure pleasure in the sweet bloom of her cheek, 
the pretty turn and rounding of its outline— tor 1 had a great love 
of beauty by nature, though 1 had seen few beautiful people. Many 
a time the sweet complexion of Alice, and her comely bright lace, 
had charmed me unawares— and 1 was a great deal more delighted 
with h lora now. 

Mrs. Ennerdale took me aside, after a few minutes, to talk to me 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


149 


after a matronly and confidential fashion— for 1 was not well, and 
did not look well; but her kindness and her sympathy confused me, 
and 1 was glad to come back to my old place. 

Flora followed me with her eyes as 1 followed her— my sad 
clouded looks woke Flora’s young tender heart to respect and affec- 
tionate wisttulness. 1 don’t think she venturned to talk much to 
me, standing apart as 1 did, to her young fancy, upon my eminence 
of grief; but she looked up with such an earnest regard in my face, 
that I was more soothed than by words. When Tvirs. Enuerdale 
began to settle her plumage, and to express her hope to see us soon, 
a sudden idea seized upon me. 1 took no time to think of it, but 
acted on my impulse in a moment; 1 suddenly became energetic, 
and begged that Flora might stay a few days with me. Flora looked 
up with an eager seconding look, and said, “ 1 should be so glad!” 
in her youthful whispering tone. The papa and mamma took coun- 
sel together, and my husband started slightly, and looked with a 
momentary wonder in my face; but 1 suppose he had almost ceased 
to wonder at anything 1 could do. 

“ Well, 1 am sure you must have need of company, my dear,” 
said the sympathetic Mrs. Ennerdale, “ and Flora is a good girl too; 
but must I send her things, or how shall we do? We thought of 
asking Mr. Southcote and yourself to come to Ennerdale, but 1 
never dreamed of you keeping Flora. Well, dear, well, you shall 
have her — and I’d see about sending her things. Flora, love, try 
it you can not get your poor dear cousin to look cheerful ; and rec- 
ollect exercise — ” said the experienced matron, turning aside to 
whisper to me, ” remember, dear, it is of the greatest consequence; 
walk every day — be sure— every day.” 

There was some delay consequent on my request and the new ar 
rangements, but in less than half an hour the elder pair drove off, 
and left Flora with me. 1 took her upstairs with a genuine thrill 
of pleasure— 1 think the first 1 had felt since coming here, to show 
her her room, and help her to take off her cloak. ” But come out 
first, and have a walk,” said Flora, ‘‘ Mamma says you ought to go 
out; and it is so pleasant to feel the wind in your face. It nearly 
blew me away this morning— do come!” 

” Are you not tired?” said 1. 

“Tired! oh no! 1 am a country girl,” said Flora, with a low 
sweet laugh, as pretty and youthful as her face, “and when the 
boys are at home, they never let me rest 1 alwaj^s take a long time 
10 settle down after the holidays. Dear Mrs. Southcote! 1 hope I 
will not be too noisy, nor too much of a hoyden for you— for you 
are not well, 1 am sure.” 

“Oh, yes! I am well,” 1 said, half displeased at this interpreta- 
tion of the moody face which looked so black and clouded beside 
Flora’s. “ Will you wait for me, Miss Ennerdale, while 1 get 
ready?” 

“Don’t call me Miss Ennerdale, please!” entreated the girl, 
“ papa says we are as good as first cousins, for his father was your 
mamma’s uncle, and his mother was her aunt. Do you not know, 
Mrs Southcote? your grandpapa and mine were brothers, and they 
married two sisters— tliat is how it is— and we are as good as first 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


150 

cousins; and 1 think, you know, that we ought to call each other— 
at least that you ought to call me— by my own name." 

“ Very well, we will make a bargain," said 1, " do you know my 
name. Flora?” 

” Oh, yes! very well~it is Hester,” said Flora, with a blush and 
a little shyness. “ T have no other cousins on papa’s side— and 1 
always liked so much to hear ot you.” 

” Why?” 

“Because— 1 can’t tell, 1 am sure!” said Flora, laughing. “I 
always could see my other cousins, but never you — and so few peo- 
ple knew you; and do you know,” she added quietly, lowering her 
voice, and drawing near to me, with that innocent pathos and mys- 
tery which young girls love, ” 1 think my father, when he was 
young, was very fojrd ot your mamma.” 

“ Strange! he, too! everybody must have loved her,” 1 said to 
myself, wonderingly. 

■“ Yes- he says he never saw^ anyone like her,” said Flora, with 
her sweet girlish seriousness, and perfect sincerity. 

“ Did no one ever say you were like her?” 1 asked. 

Her lace flushed in a moment with a bright rosy color. 

“ Oh, dear Mrs, Southcote! do 3mu thiuk so? 1 should be so 
proud?” 

“ 1 thought we were to call each other by our Christian names?’" 
said 1, “ but you must wait for me till 1 get my bonnet.” 

“ Let me fetch it — is not that jmur room?” said Flora, following, 
“ oh! who is that with such a kind face? Is that your maid, Mrs. 
—cousin?” 

“ Come and jmu shall see her, miss— cousin,” said 1, unable to 
resist the happ}^ and playful fascination of this girl; “ she is my 
maid, and my nurse, and my dearist friend, too. Flora — my very 
dearest friend — Alice, this is Miss Ennerdale, my cousin.” 

Alice started to her feet very hurriedly, made a confused coui-tesy, 
and looked at the young girl. It was too much for the self-control 
of Alice — 1 believe she had become nervous and unsettled, like the 
rest of us— and now she turned suddenly away, her lips quivered, 
her eyes filled. Flora gazed at hsr shyly, and kept apart, knowing 
nothiug ot the cause of her emotion. 

“ Is she very like, Alice?” said 1, in an undertone. 

“Very like, dear! God bless her! it's like herself again. Miss 
Hester, is her name Helen?” asked Alice with a sob. 

“>lo.” 

The glance of disappointment on Alice’s face was only moment- 
ary. 

“ It ought not to have been, either; I’m glad it is not, dear— ah. 
Miss Hester! if she had been but your sister!” 

“ Ko, Alice, you w’ould have loved her best; and 1 could not have 
borne that,” said 1, still in a whisper; “ but she is to stay with me. 
1 will not let her go away again, till she is weary of Cottiswoode.’" 

And Alice — dear, kind*, faithful Alice, who had no thought but 
for me— was grateful to me for seeking my owm pleasure thus. 1 
felt as if 1 had done her a favor, wdien 1 heard her “ bless you, my 
darling!” Ah, this humble love was very consolatory; but 1 am 
not sure that it was very good for me. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


151 


1 was not very strong nor able to walk as 1 had been used to do. 
But 1 felt the sweet exhilaration of the wind upon my face, and 
looked with pleasure along the level roatl, to see the thatched houses 
of Cottisbourne clustering as if for a gossip under the sunshine, and 
the great sky descending in its vast cloudy parallels to the very edge 
of these boundless teanireless fields. The hum in the air, so differ- 
ent from the hum in summer, the sharp, far away bark of that dog, 
which always does bark somewhere within your range of hearing in 
a winter landscape, the shriller harping of the leafless elms, a sound 
so distinct from the soft rustle of their summer foiiage— everything 
had a clear, ringing, cheering sound; and Flora went on by my side 
the embodiment and concentration of all the lesser happinesses, with 
a gay, light tripping pace like a bird’s, and all her heart and mind 
in sweet harmonious motion with her young graceful frame. 1 had 
always myself been the youngest in our little household— it was a 
new pleasure to me, and yet a strange, unusual sensation, to find my- 
self thrown into the elder, graver, superior place, and this young 
creature wfllh me, whom 1 could not help but treat like a child, a 
younger sister, rich in possession of youth, which 1 had never 
known. 

At fifteen, 1 think I must have felt old beside Flora — and now at 
one-and- twenty — no great age, heaven knows! I was struck with 
wonder and admiration at the beautiful youthfulness which appeared 
in every motion and every word of this simple, pretty girl. ]My 
marriage, and my unhappiness, had increased the natural distance 
between us. 1 did not envy Flora; but 1 had a sort of reflective, 
half-melancholy delight in looking at her— such as old people may 
have, 1 fancy, but which was strange enough at my years, 

“Do you not like walking, cousin?” said Flora — “1 think the 
fresh air is so sweet — 1 do not care whether it is summer or winter — 
1 should like always to be out ot doors. 1 always could dance when 
1 feel the wind on my face like this.” 

“ But I am older than you, E'lora,” said 1. 

Flora laughed her sweet, low, ringing laugh —“lam sure you are 
not so much older than I, as 1 am older than Gus,” slie said, “but 
mamma says when they are all at home, that i am the wildest boy 
among them. Do you liue riding cousiu?” 

“ 1 never ride,” said I. 

“ Never ride? oh! 1 am so fond of horses,” cried Flora; “ and a 
gallop along a delighttul long road like this— why, it’s almost as 
good as flying. Will you try? 1 am quite sure you are not timid, 
cousiu. Uh! do let Mr, ISouthcote find a horse for you and tiy to- 
morrow. But, 1 forgot!” she said with a sudden blush, which 
brought a still deeper color to my cheek, as she glanced at me, 
“ perhaps it would not be right for you.” 

There was a pause of momentary embarrassment, and Flora was 
greatly distressed 1 could perceive, thinking she bad annoyed me. 
At that moment, some children from the school at Cottisbourne 
passed us, going home, and made their clumsy bows and courtesies, 
which 1 ouly acknowledged very slightly as we went on. Flora, 
lor her part, cast a wistful glance after the little rustics. “ Bhall 
you not speak to them, cousin?” she asked with a little surprise— 

have they not been good children? 1 should so like you to see our 


152 


TPIE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


school at Ennerdale. I always go (here every day, and I am very 
fond of them. They are such tid>% pleasant children ; and 1 believe, 
though It looks so vain to say it,'” said Flora, breaking oft with a 
laugh, ” that they all like me.” 

” 1 should not fancy that was so very extraordinary either,” said 
1, ” other people do that, 1 suppose, besides the children at Eoner- 
dale.” 

” Yes, everybod}' is very good to me,” said Flora, with a sweet 
seriousness, “but then you know, cousin, 1 have sometimes to 
punish the ctiilarcn as well as to praise them. How do you do here? 
1 am sure yon know a great deal better how to manage than 1 do. 
Do you forgive them when they seem sorry? or do you keep up 
looking displeased at them? Mamma says I spoil them because I 
only look angry tor a moment; but you know 1 never am really 
angry, 1 only pretend, because it’s right.” 

** indeed, Flora, 1 do not know. I never visit the school; 1 have 
had so little to do with children,” 1 answered hastily. 

Once more Flora cast an amazed glance at me. This was more 
wonder ful still than never riding— i began to grow quite a puzzle 
to Flora. 

“ Mamma has so many things to do, she seldom gets any time to 
help me,” continued the girl, rallying a little, after a pause. “ Do 
you know, cousin, mamma is a perfect Lady Bountiful; she is al- 
ways busy about something— and when people tell her ot it, she 
only laughs, and says, it is no credit to her— tor she does it all lor 
pleasure. Don’t you think it is ver}’- silly for people to praise ladies 
like mamma, or to find fault with them either? bhe is only kind to 
the village people, because she likes to see them pleased and getting 
on well— and we all like compan^^ Cousin Hester, and we know the 
village people best and longest, and they are our nearest neighbors — 
and don’t you think it is right to be kind to thenr; but the Miss 
Oldhams, at Stockport House, say we arc undermining their inde- 
pendence, and condescending to the poor.” 

“ “ 1 am sure your mamma must be quite right. Flora— but here 
comes rain — i think we must go home,” said 1. 

Flora held up her fresh pretty face to it, and caught the first drops 
upon her cheeks. 

“ It is rather too cold,” she said, shaking them off with a pretty 
graceful motion, and beginning to run like a fawn. “ 1 like to be 
caught in a spring showc-r; but oh, Cousin Hester! what shall 1 do 
it 1 get my dress wet? 1 haven’t another one till they send; and 
there 1 am running and forgetting you. Don’t run — 1 don’t care 
for being wet, it 1 may come down stairs in this frock after all 
Oh! there is Mr. Soulhcote with a mantle for you and an umbrella; 
and now I’ll run all the way home.” 

IShe passed him with a laughing exclamation as he came up. She 
could not guess that this biief walk alone would be irksome to the 
young husband and wife, not four months married. 1 suffered him 
to w^rap the mantle round me— 1 wondered almost, to feel with what 
uncliminished care he did it; and then we walked on side by side, 
in dreary silence, looking at the flying figure before us, with her 
mantle streaming behind her, and her" fair curls escaping from the 
edge of her bonnet, as she turned round her laughing, glowing 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


153 


pretty face, to call and nod to us, as she ran on. We aid not speak 
to each other; we only looked at her, and plodded on slowly side by 
side; and again the thought came upon me— and now, with a sush 
of pity for both of us, which overpowered me so, that 1 could have 
thrown myself down there on the rainy roadside and cried— what a 
happy man he would have been, had he brought Flora Ennerdale, 
instead of Hester Southcote, to Cottiswoode, as his bride. 

I suppose the sight of her, and her innocence and happiness, had 
moved him too — for just when he left nie, after our silent walk, he 
leaned over me tor a moment, taking off my mantle, and whispered 
in a tremulous tone — “ Dear Hester! 1 hope you will have pleasure 
in this good little girl’s society.” As he spoke, 1 caught his eye; 
there was no moisture in it, and a tender anxious look, as it he were 
very solicitous about me. 1 had great difliculty at the moment in 
restraining a great burst of tears — 1 was shaken almost beyond my 
own power of control. If 1 had waited another moment, 1 think 1 
must have gone to him — clung to him, forgetting everything but 
one thing, and wept out all the tears in my heart, i fled to save 
reply. I am sure he heard me sob as 1 ran upstairs; but he did not 
know how 1 was almost overpowered— how a new love and tender- 
ness, almost loo much for me, was swelling like a sea in my heart. 

1 fled to my own room, and shut myself in, and sunk down upon 
the floor and cried. Alice had been speaking to him, 1 read it in 
his eye — but 1 — 1 could say nothing. 1 could not go, as his wife 
should have gone, to share with him the delight, and awe, and 
wonder of this approaching future. 1 lay down upon the floor 
prostrate, with my face buried in my hands. 1 tried to restrain my 
sobs, but 1 could not. Long afterward, I knew that he was watch- 
ing, longing, without the door, while 1 went through ihis moment 
of agony within— afraid to enter. If he had entered, perhaps — yet, 
why should 1 say perhaps? when 1 know it is quite as likely that 
my perverse heart would have started up in indignant anger "at his 
intrusion, as that my pride and revenge would have given way be- 
fore my better feelings; it was best as it was. 1 see all now; and 
how every event was related to its neighbor. 1 see 1 could not have 
done without tlie long probation, and the hard kssons which re- 
mained tor me still. 

When 1 recovered myself, it is strange how soon 1 hardened down 
once more into my former state. 1 had no longer any fear of meet- 
ing him, or of yielding to my own weakness. 1 rose and bathed my - 
face, though 1 could not take away the sign? of tears entirely from 
my eyes — and then I remembered how 1 had neglected Flora, and 
went to seek her. I found her sitting on a stool before the Are in 
her own room, spreading out her dress round her to dry, and look- 
ing up in the face of Alice who stood beside her. What a pretty 
picture the two would have made! Flora’s wide dress spread out 
around her upon the soft warm-colored hearth-rug; her hair hang- 
ing halt out of curl, and slightly wetted; her pretty hand held up 
before her to shield her cheek from the fire, so that y oil could trace 
every delicate little vein in the pink, halt- transparent fingers— and 
her sweet face turned toward Alice, looking up at her; while Alice, 
on her part, looked down, with her kind motherly looks and fresh 
complexion — her snowy cap, kerchief, and apron, basking in the 


154 THE DATS OF MY LIFE. 

1 was reluctant to break in upon them with my red eyes 
and heavy face. 

“ Oh, cousin! what must j-ou think of me?” said Fiora, staitin^^ 
as 1 entered. ” 1 ought to have come to see how you were after 
being so hurried; but Alice began to talk to me, and we forgot. It 
is so comfortable here— and theie is such a delightful easy-chair. 
Dear Cousin Hester! sit down and stay with me here a little, till my 
dress is quite dry. You were not angry with me for running 
away?” 

She had drawn her delightful easy-chair to the fire, and coaled 
me into it before 1 was aware. Once more 1 felt an involuntary 
relaxation and warming of my heart. This feminine and youthful 
pleasure — this pleasant gossiping over the fire, so natural and pleas- 
ant and unconstrained, was almost quite new to me. 1 did not 
know, indeed, what female society was — 1 had lived in ignorance 
of a hundred innocent and sweet delights which were very health 
and existence to Flora. My heari melted to my own mother when 
1 looked at my new friend; 1 began to understand how hard it 
would be for such a creature to live at all under the shadow of a 
silent, passionate, uncommunicative man like my father, even if he 
had not distrusted her. 

” 1 am afraid 1 was crying,” said Flora, wiping something from 
her cheek, ” tor Alice was speaking of your mamma; and cousin, 
Alice, too, thinks 1 am like her. .1 am so very glad to be like her I 
but papa said you were a little too. Cousin Hester.” 

“ No, 1 do not think it,” said 1. ” 1 am not like her, 1 am like 

the gloomy Southcotes, Flora. 1 have missed the sweeter blood af 
your side of the house.” 

‘‘ Dear Cousin Hester! I think you are very melancholy,” said 
Flora, looking up at me affectionately. ” Pray don’t speak of the 
gloomy Southcotes — you are only sad, you are not gloomy; and 1 
do not wonder — 1 am sure if it were 1—” the tears gathered heavily 
into her sweet blue eyes. No, Flora, like myself six months ago, 
knew nothing of the course of time and nature. Flora could under- 
stand any degree of mourning for such a grief as mine. 

Alice had met my eye with an inquiring and slightly troubled 
glance, and now she went away — we were left alone. Flora and 1 — 
for some time we sat in silence together, my eyes bent upon the fire, 
and her’s on me. This sweet simple girl seemed to faney that she 
had a sort of charge of me— to amuse and cheer me. Atter a short 
interval she spoke again. 

” 1 saw some beautiful flowers down-stairs — are they from your 
greenhouse, cousin? some one told me there was such a beautiful 
conservatory at Cottiswoode. Do your plants thrive? do jmu spend 
much lime there? Are you fond of flowers, Cousin Hester?” 

” 1 used to like them very well,” 1 said; ‘‘ but 1 do not think 1 
have been in the conservatory here more than halt a dozen times. 
Should you like to go now. Flora?” 

” Oh, yes— so much! if it would not tire you,” said Flora, start- 
ing up, ‘‘we have only such a little shabby one at Ennerdale. 
!Mamm.a used to say the nursery was her conservatory; but 1 am 
very fond of flowers. Oh, what a beautiful place! did you have 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 155 

this when you were at Cottiswoode before? 1 think 1 could live 
here if this were mine!” 

And she flew about lisht-hearted and light-footed through the 
pretty conservatory, which indeed looked a very suitable place for 
her. As 1 followed her languidiy, Flora found flower after flower 
which she did not know, and came darting back to me to know the 
names, reckoning upon my knowledge, as it seemed, with the most 
perfect confidence. I did not know— I did not know— 1 had never 
observed it before. Her young bright face grew blank as she re- 
ceived always the same answer; and by and by she restrained her 
natural exuberance, and came and walked beside me soberly, and 
ceased to assail me with questions. 1 w^as not much satisfied with 
the change, but 1 caught Flora’s grave, anxious, wondering look at 
me, and knew that this and everything else was laid to the account 
of my sorrow, and that the sincerest pity and attectionate anxiety 
for me had risen in this young girl’s simple heart. 

She brightened again into great but subdued delight, when I said 
that some of the flowers she admired most should be set aside to go 
to Ennerdale, and when 1 plucked a few nretty blossoms for her, to 
put in her hair — they were too good for that, she said, and received 
them in her hands with a renewal of her first pleasure. Then we 
went into the drawing-room, and sat down once more looking at 
each other. “ Do you work much, Cousin Hester?” asked Flora, 
timidly, ” for, of course, not thinking that you would wish me to 
stay, 1 brought nothing with me to do. Will you let me have some- 
thing? I am sure you think so much, that you like working; but 
for me, 1 am always with mamma, and when we are busy, she says 
1 do get through so much talk. Let me work, please. Cousin Hester 
—it is so pleasant for two people to work together.” 

” 1 have got no work, Flora,” said I, faltering a little; it was true 
enough — yet 1 had some little bits of embroideries in progress, 
which 1 did not like to show to her, or to any one, but only worked 
at in solitude and retirement, in my own room upstairs. 

This lime Flora sighed as she looked at me, and then glanced 
round the room in quest of something else. ” Do you play. Cousin 
Hester? are you fond of music? 1 know great musicians have to 
practice a great deal,” she said looking at me interrogatively, as if 
perhaps this might be a suflicient reason for my unaccountable dis- 
regard of village schools and hot-house flowers, and embroidery. 
For the moment, with her simple eye upon me, Ifelt almost ashamed 
for myself. 

” Ho, Flora, 1 never touch the piano,” said 1. 

Flora rose, and drew softly toward me with humility and bold- 
ness. ” Dear Cousin Hester,” said the innocent young girl, kneel- 
ing down upon a footslocl beside me, and putting her pretty arm 
round my waist, ” you are grieving very much and breaking your 
heart — oh! 1 am so very sorry for you I and 1 am not surprised in- 
deed at all, for it is dreadful to think what such a loss must be— and 
no mamma to comfort you. But, cousin dear, won’t you try and 
take comfort? Mamma says it will do you harm to be so very sad 
—though 1 know,” said Flora, leaning back upon my knee to look 
up into my face, and blushing all over her own as she spoke, ” that 


156 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


sometiiing wiU make you very happy when the summer comes, for 
Alice told me so.” 

This simple and unpremeditated appeal overpowered me. 1 leaned 
down my cheek upon hers, and put my arms round her, and no 
longer tried to control myself. S^he was alarmed at this outbreak, 
which was almost as violent as the former one in my own room, and 
when she hud soothed me a little, she ran upstairs and came down 
breathless with some eau de cologne and water in a little china 
basin' and bathed my forehead with a dainty little handkerchief, 
and put back my hair and smoothed it as it she had been my nurse, 
and 1 a child. Then she wanted me to lie down, and conducted me 
tenderly upstairs tor that purpose — where, however, 1 only put my 
dress in order for dinner, and went down again. 

My husband encouraged her happy talk while we sat at table, and 
she told him ” Cousin Hester had been a little nervous, and was so 
very sad; could he tell her what to do, to amuse her cousin Y’ For 
my own part, 1 did not dare to meet his eye. Not only my own agita- 
tion, but the natural and happy life interposed between us in the 
person of this simple girl, made it a great struggle for me to main- 
tain my composure and self-control. 

When we returned to the drawing-room. Flora drew her footstool 
to the fireside again, and sat down at m}’’ feet and told me of all her 
pleasant way? and life at home. Then she rose suddenly. ” Should 
you .ike me to sing, Cousin Hester? 1 can not sing very well, you 
know, but only simple songs, and papa likes to hear me, at this 
time, before the lights come. Shall I sing? would it amuse you. 
Cousin Hester?” 

” Yes, Flora,” 1 said; she asked no more, but went away in her 
simplicity to the piano. Then while the evening darkened, I sat by 
the fire, which burned red and warm, but sent only a fitful variable 
glow into tne corners of the room, listening to the young voice, as 
sweet and clear as a bird’s, singing song after song for my pleasure. 
They went to my heart, these simple words, these simple melodies, 
the pure affectionate sincerity of the singer, who never once thought 
of herself. 1 bowed mj'self down by the fire and hid my face in 
my hands, and in perfect silence, and strangely subdued and soft- 
ened, wept quiet tears out of a full heart. She was still going on, 
when 1 becam.e aware in an instant of another step beside nie— and 
some one stooped over me, and kissed the hands which hid my face, 
and kissed my hair. My heart leaped with a violent start and 
throb. I looked up and raised myself on my chair. My husband 
had joined us! Flora perceived him immediately, and i liad but 
time to dry my wet eyes, when lights were shining in the cheerful 
room; and the music, and the charm, and this touch wiiich once 
more had nearly startled me back into the natural woman, had van- 
ished like the wintery twilight, and 1 was once more calm, grave, 
languid, the resentful, cloudy, reserved Mrs. Southcote, such a one 
as 1 had been ever since the first, night when we came home to Cot- 
tiswoode. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


157 


THE NINTH DAY. 

It was February, a miM, pensive sprina day— for the spring was 
early that year — and Flora still remained with me. As Flora lived 
with us day by day, and saw the reserve and restraint between my 
husl'and and me, innocent and unsuspicious as her mind w'as, it w^as 
impossible, I think, that she should fail to discover something of 
how it was with us. But she was wise in her simplicity; she never 
made the very slightest allusion to anything she had discovered. 
Sometimes, indeed, when she thought rne occupied, i saw a 
puzzled, painful shade come upon her sweet young face, as she 
looked from me to him— from him to me. 1 could guess that she 
was very unwilling to blame either of us, yet could not quite keep 
herself from wondering who was to blame; but the girl had a nice 
and delicate perception of right and w^rong, which prevented her 
from hinting either suspicion or sympathy to me. 

The house was changed while she remained in it. It was not easy 
to resist the sweet voice singing in those dull rooms, tlie light step 
bounding about involuntarily, th^e unburdened heart smiling out of 
the fair, aftectionate face. 1 became very fond of my young relative. 
She stole into my confidence, and sat with me in my room, a more 
zealous worker at my secret embroideries than even I was. 1 was 
constantly sending to Cambridge for things which 1 thought would 
please her; for Flora’s sake 1 began to collect a little aviary; for 
Flora’s sake 1 sent far and near for rare flowers. If Flora’s own 
good taste trad not withheld me, 1 would have loaded her with the 
jewels which 1 never thought of wearing myself. All my happier 
thoughts became connected with her. She had all the charm of a 
young favorite sister, combined with the freedom of a chosen 
friend. 'We w'alked together daily, and my health improved, almost 
in spite of myself— and she drove me about in a little pony-ca’’riage, 
which had never been used till she came. 1 think Flora was very 
happy herself, in spite of her wondering doubt about our happiness; 
and she made a great difference in the atmosphere of Cottiswoode. 

AYliile we were pursuing our usual walk to-day, we met JVIiss 
Saville. She was going to Cottisbourne, and went on with us, talk- 
ing of her schemes of “ usefulness.” 1 had given up the visitor’s 
uniform myself after a second trial, and had contented myself wdth 
sending money by the hands of Alice to Mary and granny, and 
several other pensioners, whom, however, in my languor and list- 
lessness, 1 never cared to visit. But 1 was surprised to find how 
much more easil}’’ Flora suited herself to Miss Saville, and even to^ 
the rector, than 1 could do. She was deep in all their plans and 
purposes— she was continually asking advice about her own schemt s 
at home from one or other of them. Their peculiarity of manners 
seemed scarcely at all to strike Flora. She said they were very good 
people— very active people — she w'as quite sure they would do a 
great deal for the village. 1 assented, because 1 did not care to 
oppose her; but I — poor vain fool that 1 was!— thought their benevo- 


158 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


leuces trifling and unworthy of me, who could find no excuse here 
tor heroic deeds or murtyrdoui. 

Miss Saville looked strangely annoyed and anxious to day. 1 saw 
her hrow contract at every bend of the road, and she cast certain 
glances about her, as if looking for somebody, and was not, 1 
think, very well pleased to have encountered us. Sometimes she 
started, turned to look back and asked, “ Did you hear anything?” 
as though some one was calling her. It Flora had observed her per- 
turbation, 1 have no doubt we should have left her, for Flora’s deli- 
cate regard for others never failed, when it was exerted, to influence 
me; but Flora w'as not so quick of sight as 1 was, nor so learned in 
the signs of discomfort— and my mind ivas so indolent and languid, 
that i should have gone on quietly in any circumstances, and would 
not willingly undertake the exertion of changing my course for 
any cause. So we continued on our way, anj as w^e proceeded, 
JMiss Saville told me that old Sally had changed her mind, and that 
she and a few others were quite ready to become inmates of her 
asylum now. 

” But you — you surely would never condemn yourself to keep 
house with that miserable old woman!” said I, with a shudder. 
“ You will think 1 am capricious for changing my mind, but indeed 
1 did not know what a penalty it was. Pray don’t think of it. 
Miss Saville. Let me give her something every week to support her 
at home.” 

” You have, indeed, changed your mind,” said Miss Saville, with 
a smile wfliich was rather grim. ” But 1 don’t wonder at it. 1 
never expected anything else, and it was only a fancy with you; 
you have enough of natural duties at home. But here is how'^ the 
case stands with me, my dears. The rector may marry — 1 trust 
he will — indeed, 1 may say that there is great hope of it. 1 have 
enough to keep myself, but 1 have nothing to do. i should like to 
be near AVilliam — I mean the rector; but what would become of me 
if 1 was idle, do you think? i did once think of gathering a few 
clever girls about me, and setting up an establishment for church 
embroidery; but William — the rector, I mean — very justly says, 
that 1 could not afford to give such expensive things away, and to 
receive payment for them— though only for the materials— would 
be unbecoming a lady; so 1 think it was (piite a providential sug- 
gestion when I thought of taking care of the aged poor at Cottis- 
woode. Hark! did you hear any one call me, my dear?” 

” No, iiliss baville. Are you looking for any one?” said Flora, 
perceiving our companion’s anxiety for the first time. 

‘‘No — no!” said Miss Saville, hurriedly, ‘‘1 can not say 1 am. 
A friend who is visiting us, strayed out by himself— that is all. 
He does not know the country— 1 am afndd he might miss his 
way ’’—she continued, in a very quick, conscious, apologetic tone. 

And suddenly there came to my recollection the face 1 had once 
seen at the Rectory window. Could this man be under sur'ceiUance 
by them? Could he be crazy, or in disgrace? Could he have 
escaped? 1 became suddenly very curious— almost excited — and 
looked into the corners of the hedges henceforward as carefully as 
Miss Saville did herself. 

And in my exaggerated disinterestedness, and desire for pain 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


159 


rather than pleasure, 1 was oflenderl with her plain and simple 
statement of what her flesign was in setting up this asylum of hers^ 
1 said, not without a little sarcasm: 

“It it is only for occupation, JMiss Saville, l.think Sally herself 
could give you enough to do.” 

“ Who is Sally?” asked Flora, with a w^ondering glance at me. 

“ A wretched, ghastly, miserable old woman,” said 1; “ one wha 
would disgust even you, with all your meekness. Flora.” 

“ Mamma says we should never he disgusted with any one,” said 
Flora, in an undertone — in which, shy as it w^as, my quick ear 
could not tail to detect a slight mixture of disapprobation. 

“ But this is a selfish, discontented, unhappy creature; who looks 
as it she could curse every one happier than herself,” said 1. 

“ You give a hard judgment, Mrs. Southcote,” said IMiss Saville, 
roused even to a certain dignity. “ Did you ever consider what she 
has to make her discontented — great age, weakness, disease, and 
poverty? Do even such as you, with youth, and wealth, and every- 
thing that heart can desire, make the best always of the good things 
God gives them? 1 am sure you should do so, before you give her 
such names as wretched and selfish. Look what a difierence be- 
tween old Sally and you— and she’s had no education, poor ohi 
creature! to teach her to endure her evil things patiently. But I’ve 
seen thankless young folks take blessings as it they were curses — I 
have indeed.” 

“Oh! here we are, close upon the school,” cried Flora, breath- 
lessly, eager to prevent a breach between us. “ Are you at)le to be 
troubled. Cousin Hester? Please do let us go in.” 

I w’as not offended. 1 am not sure that this assault upon me was 
disagreeable to me at all. At the moment, it rallier increased ray 
respect for Miss Saville, and gave her importancein my eyes; though 
1 confess, when I thought of it after, 1 did not derive a great deal 
of satisfaction from comparing myself, my temper, and my hard- 
ships, with those of old Sally. 

Without any more words, we entered the school — the half of it 
appropriated to girls and infants. As the startled children slopped 
in their classes, or got up from their seats, where they were boring 
and bungling over thejr soiled pieces of sewing, to make their 
clumsy courtesies, 1 took a seat which Flora brought me, and she 
began to dance about among them, overlooking their woik, and 
inquiring about their lessons, and waking awkward smiles and 
giggles among the little rustics, every one of whom hung her head, 
and turned her crown instead of her face to Flora, as the young 
lady approached. Dull, listless, separate, 1 sat and looked on, 
while Miss Saville talked to the school- mistress, and singled out 
some of the elder girls tor admonition or encouragement, and while 
Flora ran about from form to form. Miss Saville represented the 
constituted authorities. Flora— sweet, pretty Flora!— was only 
herself, young, happy, affectionate- a spring of delight to every- 
body. 1 can not tell what anyone thought of me. After a little 
interval, 1 became conscious of myself, with a dull psin. 1 never 
was like Flora; yet 1 once was Hester Southcote; once I dressed 
magnificent dolls^for Alite’s litHe niece, and enjoyed such innocent 


160 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


occupation, ard liad, among tlie very few who knew me, my own 
share of popularity — but what was I now? 

“ Cousin Hester 1” said Flora coming up to me, and bendiuc down 
to whisper in my ear. “ 1 sliould like to give them prizes, and have 
a little feast here — may 1? they are always so happy about it, and 
such a thing pleases everybody. May 1 tell Miss Saville and the 
teacher. Please do say yes— Cousin Hester?” 

” Surely, Flora, if you will like it,” said 1. 

So Flora ran to intimale her purpose— and there was a great 
flutter and stir, and briglitening among the little faces. 1 hen she 
chose to think, or at least to say, that 1 would like to hear them 
sing — and the children rose with blushing pleasure, and sung a 
loud shrill hymn at the top of their voices, led by (he school-mis- 
tress, while Flora shook her head, and smiled, and frowned, and 
nodiled, keeping time, which the singers were nobl}^ indilierent to. 
She did not like it the less, because it was sung badly — she laughed 
and clappd her hands when a few stray voices fell behind the others 
and prolonged the strain, to the discomfiture of the vexed school- 
mistress. it there was not much melody, there was enough fun in 
the performance, and enough good-will and satisfaction on (he part 
of the performers, to please Flora — and she concluded by begging 
a half -holiday for them, after she had first come and asked my 
permission, like a dutiful girl as she was. Though Flora was so 
ready to take care of me, she never forgot that, for the moment, 1 
represented mamma, and was an authority over her; for to be duti- 
ful and obedient was in the very nature of (his sweet simple-hearted 
girl. 

When we left the school, we went with Miss 8aville, at her especial 
desire, to look at two empty cottages, which she thought might be 
made into a house for her. 1 stood and listened with no great edifi- 
cation as she explained how doors could be opened in the wall be- 
tween them, and the homely arrangements of the interior alteied to 
suit her. A bit of waste ground behind she proposed to inclose lor 
a garden. ” The friends of the old people will willingly give me a 
day’s labor now and then, and the gardener at the Rectory will see 
everything kept in order,” she said; ‘‘here, JMrs. Southcote, 1 pro- 
pose building a sitting-room and bed-charnber for myself at my own 
expense, which will leave abundant accommodation for my patients. 
jMay 1 expect you now and then to see how we are getting on? I 
don’t expect anything more. Ro! my dear, 1 knew you would 
change your mind — make no apologies — 1 tell sure of it all along.” 

1 was'not much flattered to know that Miss Saville was quite sure 
of it all along -but 1 thought it most prudent to say nothing about 
it now. Flora was extremely interested in all the arrangements. 
”1 shall come whenever 1 am at Cottiswoode, Miss Saville,” she 
said eagerly, ” for, of course, my cousin is not strong, and it would 
be quite wrong tor her to fatigue herself. 1 shall like so much to 
come. May we not go and see old Sally now. Cousin Hester! and 
the other old people? They are such famous story-tellers — i like 
old people for that; but, oh dear, how selfish 1 am! you are look- 
ing quite pale and tired out. TV' ill you lean upon me, cousin, or may 
1 run and tell them to get out the ponj^ carriage? 1 am sure you 
are hardly able to walk home.” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


161 


Butlwas able, in spite of Flora’s fears. Miss Saville returned with 
ns, looking jealously about her, and seeming to have a certain terror 
of encountering her strayed friend. We stopped at the Rectory 
gale to take leave of her, but she did not seem inclined to leave us 
there. “ 1 am at leisure this morning — 1 will walk on with you,’’ 
she said; but I could see very well that it was not any particular 
degree of leisure, but something much more important which made 
her accompany us. She grew more and more agitated as we ap- 
proached Cottiswoode— still no one was in sight— but 1 thought 1 
liail caught a glimpse of the Rector liimsell, telgraphing at a win- 
dow as we passed, shaking his head, and saying" “ no,” and it was 
not possible to avoid perceiving Miss Saville’s anxiety, and her anx- 
ious looks round her. At last, as Flora clambered over a low stone 
fence in search of a plant, which she thought she recognized among 
the grass, Miss Saville addressed herself to me, 

“ I think it best to mention it, Mrs. Southcote, connected as our 
families are,” she said in an agitated tone, ” though being an only 
child, you can scarcely Know what family anxieties are; we have a 
brother with us — 1 am sure you have a right to-be surprised — but 
really his state of mind is such that we could not introduce him into 
society. He has been a gay man in his day— and he has— oh! such 
a grief, my dear, to WilHam and me! fallen into wmys— well, that 
we can’t approve of. He was bred an attorney— a lawyer, and was 
in very good practice till he fell into misfortune. I am soiry to say 
poor Richard has not been able to bear misfortune— and he came 
down here for his health, and we have tried to keep him very quiet, 
the only thing to do him good — but this morning, you see, he has 
stolen out, and we can’t tell where he has gone. My dear, don’t 
look alarmed— he is not insane. Dear me! how could I imply such 
a thing! far different from that— he is very clever; but, you know', 
w’e don’t want him to truble Mr. Southcote— or— or any one— and 
W’hen he takes anything into his head, he is very firm and will not 
be persuaded out of it. He has taken a violent fancy ever since he 
came, of speaking to Mr. Southcote or yourself— and we have done 
all we could to prevent him— for you know, we don’t like to show 
our family troubles any more than other people, especially as Will- 
iam is a clergyman; but 1 must tell you— hush! here is the young 
lady coming hack— and if you meet my poor brother, Mrs. South- 
cote, do not be afraid.” 

Miss Saville ended this very long speech out ot breath with hurry 
and agitatiou as Flora reappeared. If he was not a madman, why 
should 1 be afraid? and madman or not, wdiat could Saville want 
Nvith me? On my husband, of course, he had the claim of grati- 
tude, and 1 could'not resist my impulse to mention that. 

” I think 1 saw him once at the Rectory w indow,” 1 said quietly 
and iu a tone which must have jarred dreadfully on Miss Saville’s 
excited ears. “ Was not he the man who brought Mr. Southcote 
first to Cottisw'oode? 1 recollect him; I trust my husband has not 
forgotten the claims his friend has upon him.” 

i had scarcely spoken the words, when 1 w'as bitterly ashamed of 
them; and I felt ray face burn under my companion’s eye. She 
w'as startled by my tone, and she had evidently forgotten, it, indeed, 
she ever clearly knew, that ruy husband’s possession of Cottiswoode 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


162 

had been any injury to me, who now shared it with him. When? 
she answered, she spoke in a tone ot pique— she perceived a certain 
disrespect, but she did not see the bitterness in my tone. 

“ He is not what he once was, Mrs. 8outhcote,” said Miss Saviile; 
“ but 1 think poor dear Richard does deserve something better than 
to be spoken of as ‘ the man.’ 1 am not proud, but 1 know Ed.c:ar 
Southcote has reason to reckon a friend in Richard Saville. It w^as 
he w’ho brought the poor boy over from Jamaica, when he had not 
a friend in the world to care for him -and he got him his rights. 
1 am sorry for wdiat has happened to my brother, and grieved lor 
him, and 1 was foolish to think 1 might get sympathy from a stran- 
ger — but I’m not ashamed of Richard, Mrs. Southcote, and never 
will be.” 

” 1 beg your pardon. Miss Saville,” said 1— for the moment 1 felt 
very mucli ashamed of myself. 

Flora had not succeeded, and was tired with her scramble, and 
momentarily silenced by the fatigue; while neither Miss Saville nor 
1 had much to say to her, or to each other. We '^’alked on quietly, 
till we came to the little private gate, which entered directly into 
the grounds surrounding Cottiswoode; lor this favorite lane which 
led to the village was much nearer to the house itself than to the great 
gate at the end of the avenue. When w^e arrived there, 1 invited 
Miss Saville to come ip, but she would not; though, as we passed 
through the garden ourselves, 1 could see that she still stood by the 
little wicket watching us anxiously — no doubt to see if we en- 
countered her brother even here. 1 was no less on the watch ni}’’- 
self, but we saw no one till w’e had entered the hall. Flora, as 
usual, tripped on before me. 1 followed after slow and languidly; 
and she was already in the drawing-room, when 1 had scarcely 
crossed the threshold, and wdien the wide hall door, still held fully 
open, admitted the entire flood of noonday light into the hall. At 
that moment the library door was opened suddenly, and (he very 
man 1 had been looking for stood before me. 1 could see that he 
was heated and flushed, as it with some recent argument; and his 
stealthy sidelong cunning look, which 1 could remember, had given 
way to an air of coarse dissipation — that state in which everything 
is surrendered, ami when even appearance and dress and personal 
neatness are lost in the universal bankruptcy. Behind him, within 
the library, appeared my husband, pale, haughty, holding the door 
in his hand, and dismissing his visitor with a formal solemnity, such 
as 1 had never seen in him before. Wnen Saville perceived me, he 
stood still for a moment, and made a swaggering bow, and then 
advanced a step as though to address me. 1 bovved slightly to him, 
and hastened my steps to get out of Iris way. “ Stay an instant, 
madam— stay an instant,” he said with a little excitement; while 
my husband stiil re'nained behind looking on. 1 only hurried in the 
more quickly. “Very well.” he said, with a loud exclamation— 
” surely, there is no rearon, it you will not near what concerns you, 
that I should trouble myself about the matter.” 

1 was strangely disturbed when, at last, Igot into the quiet shelter 
of the drawing room. 1 took refuge upon a sofa, and lay down 
there to recover my breath. The sight of this man, and the sound 
of his voice, which I almost thought I could remember in the over- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


163 


excitement ot my feelings, overpowered me with recollections. 1 
remembered how we were when he came— how I was disgusted 
with the familiarity of his first address to me- how my father, for 
the moment, resisted Edgar Southcote’s clanns— and how 1 endeav- 
ored to convince him that they were true. In this room, where w^e 
had conversed together— looking at the very portrait to which 1 had 
pointed — I scarcely conld persiiade myself that all was real, and that 
this was not a dn-air.. 

Flora took my bonnet from me, loosed my mantle, and bade me 
be still and rest. “ 1 am always so thoughtless. 1 am sure we 
ought not to have walked so far, .Cousin tlesler,” said the penitent 
Flora. “ 1 will come down immediately, and read to you--shall 1? 
you ought to have a good rest.” But when Flora left me, 1 rose from 
the sofa to walk about the room. VVheulan: disturbed in mind 1 
can not be still, unless, indeed, I am very greatly disturbed, w^hen 1 
can do anything. 

1 had only been a few moments alone, when my husband came 
to me. 1 retired to my usual seat immediately, and he came to my 
side, fie still looked as I had seen him at the do w of his library — 
almost like my father for a time— resolute, pale, stately, a man of 
invincible determination, on whom words would be wasted, and 
whose mind no persuasions could change. A litlte indignation ana 
a little scorn united in his look. 1 can not describe how very differ- 
ent from hs usual appearance he was to- da 5 ^. 

‘‘ 1 have had a visitor, Hester,” he said; ” 1 fancied you recog- 
nized him, and I think it right you should know what hehadfo 
say. He is — ” 

” Pray do not tell me,” said I, hurriedly. ” 1 know who he is 
— but indeed, I do not desire to hear his name, nor anything he may 
have had to say.” 

‘‘ You know who he is— did you know he was here, Hester?” 
said my Inrsband, looking at me, 

” Y'es — 1 saw and recognized him at a window of the Peel ory 
some time since,” 1 said, ” and Miss Saville has been telling me of 
him to-day — ot course, you did not suppi^sethat 1 hart forgotten his 
name, or failed to suvspeet that the rector and his sister were rela- 
tives ot the man who brought you to Cotliswoode.” 

” 1 have very tew ways of knowing what you suspect, Hester,” 
he said, with some sadness, ” but this j'ou must permit me to tell 
you without delay; he thinks he has found—” 

” Will you do me one kindness?” 1 asked, ‘‘Flora is comrng, 
and 1 do not wish to hear anything he said. 1 can have nothing to 
do w^ith it one way or another, and it is irksome and painful to me. 
Indeed, 1 am tired and not well, and might be excused on that 
score. Here is my young cousin. 1 would rather you did not tell 
me.” 

He drew back with a slight haughty bow, anri retir-ed from me. 
‘‘ As you will !” lie said; and wlreo Flora entered, which she did 
instantly, he left the room w'ithoirt another word. 

What a perverse miserable creature I was! though 1 bod refirsed 
to hear him when he wdsbed to speak to me, i was wretched when 
lie w^as gone. Wlien Flora came to me book in band to read, 1 per- 
mitted her, that 1 might have a little uninterrupted leisure, and 


164 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


while she, poor girl, labored for my entertainment, my mind was 
wondering after my husband and what he would have said. What 
could it be? whatever it was, he was displeased about it, and in 
spite of the wide and constant difference between us, 1 could not 
forgive myself for rejecting his confidence— tlioudi, indeed, had he 
returned at that moment 1 can not answer for myself that 1 would not 
have done it again. 

1 could not bring my attention to Flora’s book; she appealed to 
me constantly for admiration and sympathy at her own favorite 
passages— but the bliink look with which 1 met her appeal, pained, 
though it did not offend the affectionate girl. She excused me to 
herself, as she always did, and quietly put the book away, pretend- 
ing she saw the gardener going to the conservatory, and wanted to 
beg a flower from him. 

Thus 1 was once more left alone with my unreasonable and vex- 
ing thoughts. 1 might have heard what he had to say, my con- 
science whispered me — and 1 recalled the haughty withdrawal from 
me which marked his displeasure, with a pang which I wondered 
«t. It was ail Saville’s fault — Saviile! this miserable man who 
brought disgrace and unhappiness home to his brother and sister. I 
felt almost a positive hatred in ray mind as 1 recalled him. 

Feeling heated with my recent excitement, and very nervous and 
unhappy, 1 drew the little hood of my mantle over my head, and 
went out into the grounds before the house to subdue myself a 
little. The day was still at its height, sunny and warm, almost 
like summer, and every twig of all the trees and hedges was burst- 
ing with the young life of spring. Rich golden and purple crosses 
spotted the dark soil in all the flower borders, and the pale little 
pensive snow-drop, instead of looking precocious as it usually does, 
looked late, feeble, and all unlike the sunshine. Waving their num- 
berless boughs far up across the blue depths of the sky, 1 thought 
1 c( uld see the buds bursting on the elm-trees — and life was rising 
and swelling in everything like a great tide. 1 was refreshed by 
the cool breeze on my brow, and calmed with the sounds and breatli 
of the fresh air out-of-doors. 1 can not tell wnat induced me tcv 
turn my steps to the little wicket-gate, at which this morning we 
had left Miss Saviile, and which opened .on the lane leading to the 
Rect(ry. 1 went to it, and leaned my arm upon it, looking down 
the road. 1 had not been there a minute when 1 heard a murmur 
of voices— “ Don’t, Rickard, pray don’t! —I w^on’t have you frighten 
the poor child,” remonstrated the voice of Miss Saviile. ” It’s for 
her good,” answered another voice— and before 1 could leave my 
place, Saviile had sprung across the low fence into the lane, and was 
close beside me. 

For the first moment, 1 did not move, but stood looking full at 
him with a gaze which subdued the man, though lean not tell how. 
[‘Young lady! let me have halt an hour’s conversation,” he said,, 
in a humble tone. ” 1 know^ a great deal which you would be very 
glad to knowr. Come, don’t, be proud. 1 know you’re not over- 
pleased to be only Queen Consort— if you’ll be ruled by me-^i’ 

” 1 will not be ruled by you— be so good as to leave me,” said 1, 
drawing back— ‘‘ 1 will hear nothing you have got to say— not a 
word.” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


165 


“ If you will not hear me, you will repent it,” said the man. ” I 
warrant Ed^ai has not told you a word— no, trust him tor that.” 

At this moment, 1 do not deny that my curiosity was very greatly 
roused, but strange emotions were roused with it; 1 could not bear 
to liear my husband’s name on this fellow’s lips. 

” If my husband did not tell me, it was because 1 would not hear 
him,” said 1, “ and 1 will not hear you — 1 do not care what you 
have got to say. Miss Saville, 1 hope, will not tliink 1 mean any 
unkindness to her — but 1 have not a word to say to you.” 

And 1 hastened away into the house, upstairs to my own room. 
How my heart throbbed! how wearied and bewildered, anfl sick at 
heart Ifelt! What could he mean? What could it be? Out of th(3 
temporary quietude 1 had fallen into, I was raised again into an 
eager consuming excitement — and for the first time that day, in the 
preoccupation and strain of my own mind, 1 wished Flora Enner- 
dale at home; for her sweet natural life, so great a contrast to mine 
at all times, was almost unendurable now. 


THE TENTH DAY. 

Those lingering, uneventful days, though they looued so long 
and ledious as they passed, how they seemed to have flown when 1 
looked back upon their silent progress! for it was now April; the 
trees were rich with ^oung spring leaves— the sky and the air were 
as bright as summer— the flowers were waldng everywhere, peeping 
among the herbage on the roadside, looking out from the tufts of 
meadow-grass, filling the breeze with a whisper of primroses and 
violets, and all the nameless favorites of spring. But spring had 
not come to Cottisw'oode— we were as we had been since my first 
coming here— only that the estrangement between us daily became 
wider, more sullen and hopeless. 'We were as little as possible to- 
gether; yet if his thoughts were as lull of me as mine were of him, 
it mattered little that we sat in different rooms, and pursued alone 
our separate occupations. The consuming and silent excitement of 
this life of ours, when, though 1 never addressed him voluntarily, 1 
watched for his coming and going, and anxiously expected, and 
sought a hidden meaning in every word he said — 1 can not describe 
to any one— it was terrible. 1 could fancy that a demoniac in the 
old times must have felt something as 1 did— 1 was possessed— 1 
had, in reality, no will of my own, but was overborne by a succes- 
sion of frantic impulses, which must have looked like a deliberate 
system, to a looker-on. 1 can neither understand nor explain the 
rules of my conduct— or rather, it had no rules. The wild sugges- 
tion of the moment, and no better principle, was the rule which 
guided me. 

Flora had just left us after a second visit; she had been one day 
gone, and 1 felt her absence greatly. Even Alice did not make up 
to me now for this younger companion; tor Alice was dull, and 
disturbed, and sad— 1 felt her every look a reproach to me— and 1 
did not seek her to be with me as 1 had once done. 1 lay on my 
sofa, doing nothing; cogitating vain impressions of injury and 


166 


THE DAYS OF HY 1.1 FE. 


wrong; going over imaginary conversations willi my husband — turn- 
ing my face away from the sweet daylight, and all the joyous life 
out-of-doors. As 1 rested thus, 1 heard my husband’s step approach- 
ing, and raised myself hurriedly; my heart began to beat, and the 
color came back to my cheek— why was he coming here now? 

He came in- -he advanced to my side — he stood before me! 1 
turned over a book nervously— glanced once at him — tried to com- 
mand my voice to speak, but could not. Then he sat down beside 
me on my sofa. I drew away from him as far as 1 could, and 
waited for what he had to say. 

“ Hester,” he said, “ this has lasted long enough. If we are to 
preserve our senses — one of us at least — some period must be put 
to this torture. Are you satisfied yet with the penance you have 
exacted? or how much more do you wish me to suffer? for 1 declare 
to 3mu, 1 have almost passed the bounds of endurance— you will 
make me mad!” 

” 1 wish you to suffer nothing,” said 1. ” 1 will keep my room 

— 1 will keep out of your sight, if it makes you mad to see me, 1 
can go away, or else confine myself to my own apartments; 1 exact 
nothing; 1 only desire you to leave me at peace.” 

” You will keep out of my sight it I will leave you at peace? that 
is a sweet compact, is it not?” he said, with vehemence and bitter- 
ness, and 1 could see that at last his patience had quite given way. 
” What do you mean, Hester? have j’ou any recollection how it is 
that we are related to each other— do you know what is the bond 
between us?” 

” Yes! we are in slavery,” Isaid; ” we belong to each other — we 
are united forever-. It is no use deceiving ourselves; we never can 
be any better— that is all 1 know.” 

” And why can we never be any better?” he said, softening and 
growing gentle in his tone. ” Unhappy and disturbed as I am, my 
fears do not go the length of that. 1 will not do you the injustice 
to suppose that you can keep up this delusion all your life. If you 
will retain it now, 1 appeal to your better judgment afterward. But 
why should 30U retain it now? Hester, you are no happier tor your 
revenge — 1 am no better for my punishment. It is now a long time 
since the offense was committed; look at it again, and see if it is 
equal to the penalty. Telkme, Ilester, what 1 have done?” 

” You have deceived me,” 1 said. 

” 1 told you nothing untrue of myself,” he said quickly. ” 1 did 
not tell 3TA1 all the truth. See how 3^011 have changed me already! 
— a man can not be at the bar so long without tr^Mng id juslit3’ him- 
self. At first 1 was a penitent offender— but nothing but mercy can 
make repentance, Hester, and you have shown no mercy to me. 
What have 1 done to deserve all that you have inflicted upon me?” 

“ Y’^ou have deceived me,” 1 repeated sullenly. 

He started up, and made a few rapid strides through the room as 
if going away— but then he returned again. His temper, his sell- 
command, his patience, could not hear any more— 1 saw that 1 had 
fairl3’^ roused him to strive with me. 

‘ Is this all 3'ou have to say, Hester?” he asked almost sternly, 
” am 1 to hear this and only this rung in my ears continually — have 
you nothing but my first ofleuse to urge against me— is this all?” 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


167 


“ Yes,” 1 said, ” it is all, and 1 have nothing more to say.” 

He could not liust hiraselt to speak, but went away from me 
again, and rapidly returned once more. “Grant it so!” he said, 
with a quick and breathless voice, “ it 1 have deceived you, 1 have 
been myself deceived — we are on equal terms.” 

1 could not understand what he meant — when it dawned upon 
me, 1 rose slowly, and we stood, confrontina each other, looking 
into each other’s eyes. “Have 1 deceived you?” 1 asked— it cost 
me an effort to preserve my calmness, but 1 did it. 

“Yes,” he said vehemently, “you were a swoet and tender 
woman when you left your tather’s house. 1 thought you one of 
those whose very presence makes a home— your high spirit, your 
rapid miud, only gave a nobler charm to your generous loving heart. 
1 thought so, Hester— 1 delighted in believing it. 1 thought the key 
of every joy in this world was given to me, when they put jmur 
hand in mine Look at me now 1—1 am bankrupt, shipwrecKed— 
from the first hour 1 brought you home, happiness was ended for 
me. This house is wrelclied — the very sunshine and daylight that 
God has made are no longer blessings to us. My life is a burden. 
My duties are intolerable. My hopes have departed one by one. 1 
tell you that more bitterly, more grievously than you hav’-e been de- 
ceived, have you deceived me.” 

1 was stung and wounded to the heart. A dreadful passion took 
possession ol me. 1 could have killed myself as I stood, that he 
might have seen me do it, and repented wdien it was too Late. Even 
then, when these bitter words were said, 1 believe lie repented. 

“ ^Yhy did you seek me then?” 1 cried passionately; “ why did 
you come out of your waj’^ to make us both so wretched? 1 am not 
a sweet or a tender woman— 1 never was so— 1 never pretended to 
be. Why did you not seek Flora Eunerdale? she was fit for you— 
she might have made you happy. Wh3’^did you not leave me in 
my solitude? 1 never came to seek you.” 

“ You insult me,” he said, turning away with renewed anger. 1 
think he said something else; 1 did not hear it. 1 made no answer 
— 1 sat down and waited till he was gone. I can not even tell how 
long it was till he went away, but when he did, 1 n/se, and, guiding 
myself by my hands, went slowly upstairs. 1 know my'' step was 
quite firm, but 1 held by the banisters and took pains to guide my- 
self, for there was a darkness over my eyes, and 1 could not see 
plainly wdiere 1 went. It seemed a long time before 1 could reach 
my own room, and when 1 en'ered it, Alice started and came 
toward me with an exclamation of fright. This restoied me a little 
to myself. 1 said 1 was faint— told her to biing me some wine, and 
lay down upon the couch till she returned. “ Are you ill. my dar- 
ling?” said Alice, bending over me with a pale face as she gave me 
the wine. “ Ko, no,” I said, “ only taint ; 1 must noi be ill, lor we 
have a good deal to do. 1 shoiiUriike to take a drive— will you 
order the carriage to be ready in an hour? and then, Alice, come 
back to me.” 

1 lay" quite still, recovering myself till she returned. 1 felt that 
to command and compose myself sufficiently to be able for all I 
wanted to do, required my whole powers. Exerting all the resolu- 
tion 1 had, 1 lay upon the couch refusing to think, resting with a 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


168 

determined purpose and resolution to rest, such as seemed very 
strange when 1 thought ot it afterward— but 1 had strength to do 
it then; slowly my eyes cleared, the beating of my heart subsided. 
1 can not tell what crisis 1 miirlit have come to, had 1 given way to 
the dreadful agitation which had possession of me for a time; but as 
1 lay here silently looking round upon the familiar room, 1 felt 
both mind and body obeying me, and rejoiced to find that 1 was 
mistress of myself, as 1 had not been for many a day. 

AVhen Alice returned, Irose— 1 foresaw Alice’s remonstrances, her 
tears and entreaties, and 1 had intentionally left very little room for 
them by ordering the carriage so soon. When she came in, 1 sat up, 
refreshed and strong. 1 c(.uld not try to “ prepare ” her for it; 1 
said abiuptly, “ Alice, 1 am going away.” 

” Where, Miss liester?” said Alice. 

” I can not tell where,” 1 said, “ all that 1 know is, that 1 must 
go away from Cottiswoode. Alice, come near me — 1 will not con- 
strain you— 1 will not be offended if you stay; but you must tell 
me at once what you will do, for I have very little time ” 

Alice looked with great and pathetic earnestness in my Lice, but 
she did not ciy, or entreat me against it, as L feared she would do. 

” Has it come to this? are you sure it has come to this?” she 
asked, anxiously, clasping her hands and gazing at me, ” Uh ! Miss 
Hester, consider what it is— consider how you are — and tell me 
solemnly has it come to this?” 

” Yes, Alice,” 1 said, ” we can not remain any longer under the 
same roof— it would kill as both. He says he is wretched, and that 
1 have deceived him. \ did not tiy to deceive him — 1 did not wish to 
make him wretched, Alice!” 1 cried with a sob which 1 could not 
restrain, ” but now 1 must go away.” 

‘‘ Oh! Miss liester, see him once more first!” pleaded Alice. 1 
suppose she had been struck with sudden hope from my tone. 

” No,” 1 said, ” it is all over— 1 am very glad it is all over. Put 
the things together, Alice — they are all in that drawer; and take 
what 1 shall need— nothing more than what 1 shall need- and ivhat 
you require yourself, and we will go away together. We have no 
one now hut each other, Alice. You will go with me? You will 
not desert me? I have not a friend but you.” 

” God help us! and clear all tins trouble away in His own time!” 
said Alice solemnly, ” but it will be a strange day when 1 desert 
you, my darling. Brighter times will come for you, dear — happi- 
ness will come vet, Miss Hester: but come joy or sorrow, 1 will 
never leave you, till God takes me away.” 

She kissed my cheek silently as 1 stooped to her— and then she 
began her sorrowful packing, i could see the tears dropping on 
the things as she put them in; but she did not make a complaint or 
a remonstraurte — she did not even seem startled. 1 was surprised 
that she should acrpriesce so easily. While 1 helped her to gather 
everything together, 1 said: ” Alice, you are not surprised— are you 
content that this is best?” 

” I’m content that nothing can be worse, Miss Hester,” she said 
sorrowfully. ” God will show what’s for the best in his time; but 
to aggravate and torment each other as you two are doing, is not to 
be called good any way: and maybe it you were far off, your hearts 


THE DAYS OF 3IY LIFE. 


169 


■\voiild yearn to one another. I’m waiting for the light out of the 
darkness, though 1 see none now.” 

And she went on patiently with her work, in a resignea and 
melancholy fashion which subdued me strangely. 1 had put on my 
own bonnet and cloak, and sat waiting ready to go away. The 
house was unusually quiet, yet eveiy far-oft sound rousecl me to 
renewed excitement. Would he do anything to prevent me going? 
should we have any further personal encounter? 1 sat shivering, 
wrapped in the cloak, which at any other moment would have over- 
powered me with its great warmtn, listening eagerly to hear some- 
thing. At length my heart leaped when 1 caught the roll of the 
carriage wheels coming to the door. Now everything was read}’- tor 
our going away. Alice had locked the trunk, which carried all our 
necessary things, and stood betore me, dressed for her journey, 
wailing my pleasure. Now, for the first time, 1 began to trenible 
and give way. 

” Will you not write a note. Miss Hester — a few woids to tell him 
you are gone. Do not leave him in such dreadful suspense?” said 
the melancholy voice of Alice. 

” Go down, and see if he is in the library,” said 1 under niy 
breath, and trembling painfully. I did not want to speak to him, 
but my heart yearned to see him, to look at him once again. 1 sat 
with quivering lips and a colorless face, waiting till she came back 
again. 1 could see myself in the mirror; how 1 trembled, and what 
a ghastly look 1 had! 1 thought she would never come again, as 1 
sat there waiting for her, hearing nothing but my own quick, short 
breathing, and the rustle of my dress. At last, Alice returned. He 
was not m the house. The rector had called about a quarter of an 
hour ago, and Mr. Southcote had gone out with him “That is 
very well, Alice— very fortunate,” 1 said with my blanched dry 
lips; but it almost was the last stroke— the utmost blow— and 1 
was stunned with the great momentary anguish which it woke in 
my heart. 

Alice drew a table to my side, and put my blotting-book before 
me. 1 took the pen in my hand almost unconsciously, and began 
to write. While 1 was thus occupied, she had the trunk carried 
down-stairs, thinking 1 did not perceive her. But even while 1 
tried to write, my eyes mechanically followed her movements. AV hat 
should 1 say to him? how 1 was losing time! 

At last 1 completed the note, and carried it in my hand down- 
stairs. This was what 1 said: — 


“ 1 do not ask you to pardon me for going away, because it is all 
1 can do to relieve you now. If 1 have deceived you, as you have 
deceived me, then we are equals, and have nothing to say to each 
other in reproach or indignation. 1 am content that it should be so; 
and as we can not restore the delusion — you to my eyes, or 1 to 
yours — it is best that we should part. 1 will not continue to make 
you wretched ; and the only one thing which is in my power, to relieve 
us both, 1 will do. 1 can not tell where 1 am going— to some quiet 
place where 1 may find shelter and rest, till I can die. I wish you 
only good, and no evil; and 1 wish you this blessing first of all--to 
be relieved of me. H. S.” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


170 

1 went down-stairs with it softly, with a noiseless step, as if I 
were a thief, and feared detection; and it was only when 1 saw Amy 
and another servant, lingering with scared faces in the hall, as it 
they suspected something about to happen, that I recovered myself. 
They went away when they saw me coming down firmly, in my 
usual dress, and with, 1 suppcse, something like my usual looks, 
and when 1 saw that thej'’ were gone, and that Alice waited for me 
at the door, 1 went softly into the library for a moment. Pie was 
constantly now in the room where my father hail spent so many 
years— but i did not think of my father, when 1 stole tremulously 
into it, and placed m3'self in his seat, and bowed my head upon the 
desk at which he had been writing: who was 1 thinking of? not of 
the man who had deceived me, and whom 1 had deceived. 1 could 
not tell — 1 was conscious of nothing but of the flood of tender 
affection, of longing, of forlorn and hopeless desolateness, which 
came over me. cried, under my breath, a name which iiad not 
passed ni\^ lips for months — the name of my brideirroom — my be- 
trothed— 1 laid my cheek close down upon his desk; 1 prayed in 
my heart, “ God bless him!” and then 1 rose, pallid and exhausted, 
to leave his house forever. Yes, there was the bright mocking day- 
light, the walnut rustling at the great window, the horses pawing 
impatiently at the door. 1 left my letter where my cheek had rested 
a moment since, and went steadily away. 

A lice helped me in and came beside me; once more 1 saw the face 
of Amy at the door, and of the housekeeper at the window above, 
looking out with wonder and dismay; and then we drove through 
the grand old avenue of elms, under the tender fresh spring foliage 
which, for 'many a year, had brought to these old hoary giants a 
I'enewal of their youth. 1 never looked back — 1 threw myself into 
my corner, and drew my veil over my face--now, at last, 1 could 
surely rest. We had only driven about halt a mile past the Rectory 
and Cottisbourne, when Alice suddenly touched my hand and 
pointed out. 1 raised myself to look; he was standing in the road 
speaking to a farmer, or rather listening; and I saw his look quicken 
into sudden wonder and curiosity, when we dashed past, fie did 
not see me, for the windows were closed, and my veil down; but 1 
saw him as 1 had. wished; the excitement of the morning partially 
remained on his face, but he was listenir^g patiently to what the man 
had to say to him, and did not neglect anything, as 1 could see, be- 
cause he had been so strongly moved and agitated. It wms strange 
to notice what a difference there was between him and me. These 
passionate emotions of mine ruled and swajmd me; he— did he feel 
less acutely than 1 did? 1 could not persuade myself so; but, he 
did his endeavor, at least, to rule and restrain his own heart. 

Yes! 1 should have been strongest at this moment— 1 never before 
had taken so decided a step. I had burst the unnatural bonds asunder. 

1 had rent the veil of domestic privacy, and told all the wmrld of 
the skeleton in our house — 1 ought to have been more resolute now 
than at any previous time of all my life But 1 was not. Instead of 
reposing on what 1 was doing, the wildest conflict arose within me. 

1 began to doubt the justice of everything 1 had ever done. 1 began 
to see myself in darker colors than 1 had ever been represented — a 
capricious, irritable, revengeful iritier— a fool! a fool! I stood aside 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


171 


like a terrified child who has set in motion some hightfiil machinery. 
1 remembered wliat Mr. Osborne said— it was easy to make misery 
—but, who slioiild heal it when it was made? and while 1 bade 
Alice tell them to drive faster, my heart sunk within me with a 
desperate hopelessness. 1 was going away— going away— 1 should 
never see him again! 

it seemed a very short time to me when we arrived at the railway; 
as it happened, a train was to start immediately, and within a few 
minutes more w^e were rushing long this mighty highway hurrying 
to the universal center— going to London. Alice had never traveled 
in her primitive life. Grieved and full of anxiety as she was for 
me, Alice was too natural a woman not to show a faint glimmer of 
expectation when 1 spoae of London — and while she folded my 
mantle round me, and wrapped a shawl about my feet, she looked 
out at the strange^ roadside stations, and unfamiliar country through 
which we dashed, with an excited yet half dizzy curiosity— for Alice 
w'as disposed to think we were rushing upon some catastrophe at 
this frightful, headlong speed For me 1 doubled my veil over my 
face, and Withdrew into the corner, and was Ihankfurfor the kindly 
shade of nighi, when it fell at last. 1 could not bear to recall my 
last journey hither; if 1 could in reality recall it! if 1 could go back 
and change the past! but, no— i would not have done that even 
now. 

When we arrived, Alice was helpless— the bustle, the speed, the 
lights, and noise of the great terminus we had come to, made her 
sick and giddy. She could only stand helplessly among the crowd, 
pushed about by the active people round her, looking to me for 
direction — which, weak and overcome as 1 w^as, i had little strength 
to give and 1 was scarcely less a novice than she in the act of taking 
care of myself; however, we managed to extricate ourselves at last, 
and drove away, a long fatiguing course, to the hotel where I had 
been with my husband immediately after our marriage— 1 remem- 
bered its name. It was scarcely less strange to me than to Alice, to 
pass through those continuous never-ending streets, sparkling with 
light and full of noise, and what seemed tumult to us. 1 grasped 
her hand instinctively, and she clung to me. We w^ere both help- 
less women alone in the midst of this busy crowd, no one pro 
tecting us — no one knowing where we went. 1 began to have a 
glimpse of what was before me now, as^vell as of what was be- 
hind— and self-protection and self-support do not show in their proper 
heroic colors, when )cu have to exercise them first upon a journey, 
and when 3 mur frame is weakened and your mind disturbed. 1 felt 
to myself something like a suicide: 1 had succeeded— I had put a 
barrier betw^een my former and my future life; 1 had new habits to 
learn— new faculties to cultivate— 1 was no longer to be taken care 
of — everything was new. 

Wlien we arrived and rested, at last, in a comfortable room of 
the inn, 1 did not go to rest as Alice bade me; but sat down to write 
to mv agent in Cambridge, who managed the little property which 
my father had left me. 1 paused and hesitated a moment, whether 
1 sliould not also write to Mr. Osborne to explain to him wiiat 1 
had done— but 1 decided upon leaving that to my husband. My 
other letter was halt written, and 1 had come to an abrupt pause, 


172 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


remembering; that I liad fixed upon no place to go to, and coulfl not 
yet tell the agent wlitre he was to send my remittances, when Alice, 
who had been standing by the window within the curtains, looking 
with wonder, admiration, and dismay upon the lighted street with- 
out, and its many passengers, suddenly turned round to me with 
the same question. 

“ Miss n ester, are we to stay here?” 

‘‘ No, surely not,” 1 said, “ but indeed 1 do not know where to 
go:” and I paused to recollect places 1 had read about, tor I had 
seen nothing out ot our own country. 1 thought of tbe lakes, and 
the beautiful north country for a moment; but though 1 had turned 
my back upon it forever, 1 could not bear the idea of going far 
away trom home. The railway guide, tl e renowned and myste- 
rious Bradshaw, lay on the table near my hand; 1 took it up and 
began to look over it; so vacant and destitute were we ot attractions 
and likings, after we left our lawful dwelling-place, that the only 
way ot selecting a new home, which occurred to me, was to look 
over this bald list of names till some one should strike my wander- 
ing fancy— it was a dreary method of choice. 

1 put aside my letter, half written. 1 roamed over these dull lists; 
and troth of us, solitary women as we were, shrunk at the sound of 
steps and voices in the great passages without, and drew close to 
each other to preserve some resemblance ot security and privacy, in 
this public place where, we almost fancied, we might be exposed to 
intrusion any moment. At last 1 found a name, which caught my 
eye, in Essex, not very far from Loudon, in consequence not very 
far from Cambridgeshire. 1 decided that we should go there to- 
morrow, and try to find a house; and so, very dreary, very solitary 
—startled and frightened by the strange sounds in the graat strange 
house — shutting ourselves into our bed-chamber, feeling ourselves 
so desolate, so unprotected, among strangers— we went to our rest. 


-o- 


BOOK 111. 


THE FIRST DAY. 

It was a peaceful, solitary village; a cluster of houses gathered 
round one simple church, the tower of which wms the central point 
in the quiet landscape. Behind it at some distance was a low hill 
—a very low hill — not much more than a mound — but with some 
dark Scotch firs upon it, which gave solidity to the thick plantation 
of lighter trees, not yet fully clothed. Behind the hill ran a rail- 
wa.y, upon which a train appeared, while we watched, flaunting its 
white plume into the air, as it shrieked and rushed into the shadow. 
The village itself was quite upon the water’s edge, standing close by 
the shore of a blue quiet bay, looking over to the trees and green 
fields on the other side ot the broad Thames. The place was a lit- 
tle below Gravesend, quite out of the fret and bustle of the nar- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 173 

Towei river, and there was not even a steamboat pier to disturb the 
quiet of this cluster of harmless houses, though they watched upon 
their beach the passage of great navies down the greatest thorough- 
fare of Englaua. it looked so quiet, so primitive, so retiied, with 
its few boats in its little bay, that you could not have fancied it so 
near the Babel of the world. The spring day was bright and calm; 
the river was stirred only by the great ripples of its current; the 
white sails of passing ships shone dazzling in the sunshine, and you 
could even catch a glimpse of the dancing motes of foam on the 
rough sea-water, as it widened and widened downward to the 
ocean. Though there were few striking features in the landscape, 
it charmed me with its new and unaccustomed beauty. It won my 
thoughts out of myself; 1 was pleased to think of living here. 

There was scarcely anything to be called an inn in Elith— but as 
wm had no other place to go, we went to the little humble house 
wTich bore the name, and were shown into a faded little parlor, 
where such visitors as we were seldom made their appearance, 1 
suppose, and which was certainly adapted tor very different guests. 
Alice was much more annoyed and disturbed than 1 was at coining 
here; lam afraid she almost thought her respectability compromised 
by the glimpse we caught of the aborigines of the place, ^smoking 
long pipes and drinking beer as we came in— and she was nervous 
and reluctant to be seen at the window, whither 1 had gone imme- 
diately, to looK out upon this wondertul elysium of water and sun- 
shine; there seemed to me the strangest silent ecstasy in those ships, 
their sails rounded 'with ihe slight wind, and shining with such an 
intense whiteness in the sunshine against the blue river and the 
bluer sky. They seemed to be gliding on in a dream — in a rauture 
— and my- mind glided on with them, for the moment satisfied and 
at rest. 

But 1 had now everything to think of— everything to arrange, 
Alice had lived at home so long, and had been so, undisturbed in 
her daily duties, that she was not at all fit lor this emergcncy--she 
was quite ready to do everything, but she depended entirely on me 
to be (old what she should do; so 1 asked the country girl who at- 
tended us it there were any houses to be let in the village, and she 
answered meeagerly and immediately in a some what lengthy speech, 
intimating that this was scarce the season yet, but that “a many 
families ” came from town for the beautiful air here, and that she 
knew of a widow lady who had a furnished house to let, and 
wanted badly to have it oft her hands. The girl was quite anxious 
to be the negotiator in the possible bargain — should she run and let 
the lady know? — would 1 have her come to me? or would 1 please 
go to the cottage? and we immediately had an inventory of its fur- 
niture and decorations, of which Alice, 1 could perceive, was some- 
what contemptuous. But 1 had a fancy, newly acquired, about 
our mode of living here; 1 determinea on making no pret use or 
attempt to live such a life as 1 had hitherto done. I had separated 
myself from my rank ; nd my home; 1 still wanted hardships, priva- 
tions, toils, if they were possible, and 1 had made up my mind; so 
1 took Alice's aim to support me, for 1 was very much fatigued, and 
we went out together, conducted by our zealous attendant, to see 
the house. 


174 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


It was a little square, two-storied house, standing by itself on a 
little grassy knoll, at one side of the village: the smalT inclosure in. 
front Wiis'but two strips of bare grass, with fantastic flower-beds 
cut in the turf, divided by a paved'path leading to the door. There 
were no flowers, but only a shabby little evergreen in each of the 
mounds of soil, and the front of the house was festooned with ragged 
garlands of the “ traveler’s joy,” a favorite creeper, as it seemed, in 
this neighborhood. The door opened into a little narrow passage, 
terminating in a steep flight of stairs, and with a door on either side 
— the little parlor and the little kitchen of this ” genteel ” little 
house. The ” widow lady ” made her appearance, somewhat flut- 
tered, for we had disturbed her at dinner, and I do not think she 
was quite pleased with her zealous friend, the maid at the inn, for 
revealing to strangers the table spread in the kitchen, and the care- 
less morning toilet, which was only intended for the sanctity of her 
own retirement. The parlor, into which she ushered us with pride, 
was a little stifling apartment, with Venetian blinds closed over its 
little window, so as scarcely to leave one row of panes uncovered, 
it was very fine, with a red and blue carpet, an elaborate composi- 
tion of colored paper rn the grate, and the little flow^er vases filled 
with immortelles and dried grass, reflecting themselves in the little 
dark-complexioned mirror. There was a small chitfonier in one 
corner, a hair-cloth sofa, and a round table, with sundry books dis- 
played upon it — and the ” widow laeiy ” exhibited the room w'hich 
was tier pride and crowning glory with evident satisfaction. Alice 
looked upon all with a discontented ey'^e — this homely finery made 
no impression upon her— for Alice could not be persuaded that 1 
w’as a voluntary exile and outcast; she could be reconciled to my 
leaving home, but she could not reconcile herself to any descent in 
rank. 1 was still Mrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode to Alice. 

Upstairs there were twm bedrooms, and no more; one very white 
and in good order, with dimity hangings, and carefully polished 
furniture; the other with no hangings at all, and not much lurnish- 
rng to boast of; and these, with the kitchen, made all the house. 

Alice looked in my face anxiously. ” \ou never can live in this 
little place, dear? What could you do here?” cried A.lice. ” Miss 
Hester, j’^ou won’t think of it; there’s no accommodation for a lady 
here.” 

” There is quite enough for us two,” 1 said. ” 1 do not wish to 
live as we lived at home; 1 want to help myself wu'th my ovvu hands; 
1 w'ant to live as your daughter might live, Alice; 1 think this is 
very good — we do not want any more.” 

Alice, for the moment, was almost impatient with me. ” Do you 
mean to think you can live and sit all day in this little place?” she 
said, looking round upon the fine parlor; ” it’s sinful. Miss Hester 
—it is! I’ll not give in to it. Do you think upon what’s coming, 
dear? "Well-a-day, that it should be coming now! Do you think 
you can lie down upon that hard sofa, and put up with this place, 
after wliat you’ve been used to?— it goes against my conscience — 
it’s sinful, Miss Hester!” 

” And why, Alice?” said 1. 

Alice found it dilflcult to answer why, but was not less positive 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 175 

on that account. “1 don’t like it myself,” said Alice; “I’ve not 
been nsed to it this many a day— but darling, you!” 

“ Alice, let us be humble— let us be quiet — let me have something 
to do,” 1 said earnestly. “ We shall have nobody in tlie liouse but 
you and 1. We will serve ea( h other. We will ^ everything vith 
bur own hands. Do not try to resist me, Alice; 1 think 1 have a 
great deal to learn yet— 1 am not so proud as I was. Let me try 
what life is among poorer people— let me have my will, Alice.” 

Alice made no further resistance. Pier face was not so contented 
as usual — that was all— but now she made me sit down, and went 
to the kitchen herself to bargain with the landlady. 1 heard their 
voices immediately in audible parley. The widow tvas anxious to 
have her house taken for some fixed time; wliile Alice, 1 could hear, 
\vas rather mysterious and lofty, and did nut know’ how long lier 
lady might be able to stay. Then there came an inquiry about my 
name, and something which sounded like a request tor a reference, 
and Alice came abruptly back to me. 1 was sitting where she had 
left me, listening to their conversation, and she came close to my 
side, and stooped to whisper in my ear, “ What name shall 1 say, 
Miss Hester?” 

“ Wliat name?” did Alice mean to insult me? “ My own proper 
name, of course,” 1 said, with a little anger. “ Why do you ask? 
Do you think 1 wish to conceal myself because 1 have left home? 
No, no, my own name.” 

“But the squire will be sure to find you, darling,” said Alice, 
still whispering; “ you don’t think he’ll be content and never make 
an}’’ search? and he’ll soon find you it you always go by your own 
name.” 

“ 1 will do nothing clandestine,” 1 said, with displeasure; “ noth- 
ing shall ever make me deny my name. No, Alice, we aie not fugi- 
tives — we are not guilty — 1 fear no one finding me.” 

She went away after this without a word, and then the dialogue 
in the kilclien was resumed. Her lady was Mrs. Soiithcote, a lady 
troin Cambridgeshii-e, Alice said, and wanted quiet and tresh air 
lor a time, though she could not tell how long; and then there w’cre 
many curious questions about my health, andAnany inquiring hints 
as tc m}’’ motive in coming here; but to all this Alice turned a deaf 
ear, and answ’ered nothing. One thing she insisted upon earnestly, 
and that w’as that w’e should liave immediate possession. Tire 
w’idow demurred, but Alice carried her point, and came back to me 
triumphant, to tell me that we were to remain here, and have the 
house entirely to ourselves to-morrow. She commenced operations 
immediatelv to improve the appearance of the litlle parlor. She 
drew up the blinds, removed the low^er one, opened the window— 
for the day w’as very warm— and began to tug the reluctant sola out 
of its corner, to place it at the window for me. While she was so 
occupied, and while this crazy piece of ■furniture creaked and jolted 
on its way to its new position, I caught the anxious e3'e of the mis- 
tress of the house looking in at the door watching her proceedings. 
This good woman did not understand the shifting of her much-be- 
loved and cherished furniture. The sofa w’aslhe (rue inhabilant of 
the room, while we were only strangeis and sojournei’s; she came 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


176 

in with a half courtesy to hint a remonstrance; she hoped 1 would 
not be oftended; she had seen better days, and iiever thought to be 
iu her pres^^nt position; and her luruiture— would 1 please to have 
it fakeu cate ot? and then she went lo oUer her services to help 
Alice to lift the sofa, lor it would tear her good carpet, she was 
most sure 

Alice did not receive this obliging offer with a very good grace; I 
for my part looked on w'ith quiet amusement; 1 was astonished to 
find how much the novelty of all this litjhtened my mind, and re- 
lieved me from myselt. 1 could not have believed when 1 left home 
twenty -four hours ago that anything would have brought a smile to 
my lips so soon; yet so it was; and when tbe widow went away, 1 
took my place in a corner ot the hard sofa, and looked out upon the 
river, with a drearr y ease and leisure at my heart which astonished 
me still more. Ship after ship, great and small— 1 could not tell 
one from another, nor had the slightest conception of any distinc- 
tions of class or name between them — went gliding downward, 
ma;'estic with their full white sails and lofty masts, upon the cur- 
rent, which was flowing strongly to the sea. Little steamers fumed 
and fretted upon the peaceful river, going up and down, and across 
— great ones came in, making a solemn rustle in the water with their 
unseen footsteps— little shadowy skiffs shot along like sea-birds on 
the top of the stream, and more substantial wherries, laden with 
parties of pleasure, now and then went by, keeping cautiously to 
the side ot the rivei. The tide had ebbed a little from the stony 
beach of our small bay. A boat, which had been floating an hour 
since, was now stranded on the shore. This was altogether new to 
me. 1 knew nothing, except wouls, of those mysterious ocean tides, 
nor ot where tney penetrated and where they stayed. I watched 
the water gleaming further back at every ripple with a strange de- 
light, watching and wondering how far back it would go, almost 
counting the soft peaceful waves. 1 looked anxiously out upon the 
course of the river, where (hose far-awa.y white specks were danc- 
ing on the roughened edge ot the sea. 1 speculated on the voyages, 
which these stately wayfarers were bound upon — 1 thought with a 
shudder of the storm at sea which 1 had myself seen— and I was 
only roused from my pleasant occupation by the voice of Alice, as 
she stood behind me looking out also, but with different thoughts. 
“ 1 warrant there’s many a pretty boy and many a child’s father in 
such great ships,” said Alice with a sigh; ” they’re beautiful to look 
at, Miss Hester, but 1 had a deal rather see them coming home. 
Many a house will be dreary to-da}*^ for want of them that’s sailing 
there.” 

1 know well she did not mean to grieve me, but even while she 
spoke my burden came back; J looked after the ships with a wist- 
ful glance; yes, many a home had given its best beloved to those 
frail gallant ships, to risk the storms and the sea. Why? for duty' 
and necessity, for daily bread, for honest labor; but what pretense 
had 1 for making my home desolate, or launching ray poor boat 
upon this unknowm sea of life? 1 hiM no answer to make; 1 had 
no resource but lo turn my back upon the question and ignore it. 

1 turned from the window suddenly, luid laid my head down upon 
the hard prickly hair-cloth cushion, and said 1 would rest a little. 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 177 

1 was not quite so miserable even now as 1 had been yesterday, but 
my thoughts had returned lo the same channel again. 

As 1 thus reclined, sometimes watching her, sometimes seeing 
visions of Coltiswoode and of all the agitation and tumult which 
must be there, Alice came ami went bet^^een this little room and the 
kitchen, and began to spread the table, and to prepare our early, 
humble dinner. It soothed me to see her making all those little 
simple arrangements— everything was so far removed from the more 
stately regulations of lioine— and there seemed to me such a com- 
fort and privacy in thus being able lo do without the intervention of 
servants— to do everything “for ourselves,” as 1 flattered myself. 
What a rest and deliverance to my overstrained mind would be the 
constant occupation which 1 must have had, had 1 reallv been the 
daughter of Alice! 1 thought of Amy’s cheerful bustle, of our sim- 
ple maid Mary, singing at her work in my father’s house at Cam- 
bridge; with tangible and real things in their hands and their 
thoughts all day long, what leisure could they have for the brood- 
ings of the mind diseased? — what time tor unprofitable self-com- 
munion? Ah, now 1 thought of it, that sickening doubt of myself 
came over me again; 1 was shaken in my false position; and now. 
when 1 wanted the fullest confidence in m3''self and my course of 
action, my perverse heart began to glance back with dreadful suspi- 
cions of every step 1 had ever taken. 1 could no longer rest when 
this most ingenious process of self-torment began again. 1 bad lo 
rise and walk about, hurrying, as if to escape from it; and I \\i\s 
glad and thankful when Alice came in again with our simple meal. 

After we had dined, 1 went with her, glad to be kept in any way 
from my own sole cotnpany, to unpack our trunk upstairs. 1 took 
out the things 1 bad been wmrking at, and my materials, and wlien 
she was ready to go with me, 1 carried them down stairs. 1 would 
not go without Alice. 1 made her sit by me, and take her own 
worK, and be constantly at my side. By tliis time we had drawn a 
little table to the window tor our sewing-things, and Alice sat op- 
posite lo me in a hard mahogany arm-chair, while 1, half reclining 
on my sofa, went on slowly with my occupation. 1 was still busy 
wdth those delicate bits of embroidery, and I think almost the only 
pleasure 1 recollect in that dark time of mj'- life was tlie progress I 
made with these. I was putting some of them together now — 
“ making them up,” as we called it in our woman’s language. I 
had a great pride in my needlework, and there is alwaj'S a pleasure 
in consirucliou — so I was almost comfortable once more, and some- 
times had sucli a thrill of strange delight at my heart, that it almost 
was a pang, mingled of pain and joy, to see the definite siiape these 
fine delicate bits of cambric look under my fingers. All Uiis while 
Alice sat by working at similar work, and telling me tales of young 
wives like myself, and of motheis and children, and of all ihe nat- 
ural experiences of womanhood. Like myself! with a shudder 1 
wondered within myself whether there was one other in the world 
like me. 

After awhile, when 1 wearied of this— as indeed in my present 
mood of mind and w^eakne&s of frame 1 soon wearied of anything, 

1 made Alice get her bonnet and come out with me. It was now 
getting tow'ard evening, and the usual hum of play and of rest which. 


178 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


always is alxHit a comfortable village after the day ’s work is over, 
was pleasantly audible here. At some distance from our house, be- 
hind it some lads were playing cricket m a held, and wonun were 
gossiping at the cottage doois, and men lounging about — many of 
them in their blue woolen shirts and glazed hats, sailors, as we fan- 
cied in our ignorance— though they were in reality only watermen, 
who went a hshiug sometimes, alter a soniewhat ignoble fashion, to 
the mouth ot the river, and managed those pleasure-boats when 
they were at home, We wandered down close to the river, where 
the water now came rustling up to our feet, creeping closer and 
closer in every w^ave, 

“It is the tide,” said 1, with involuntary reverence. Alice did 
not know much about the tide, but her heart, like every other nat- 
ural heart, was charmed V‘y that liquid soft ringing music, the rip- 
ple of the water as it rose and fell upon the beach, and Alice w'as 
reverential too. 1 bent down myself like a child, to put ru}' liand 
upon the pebbly W’et line, and feel the soft water heaving up upon 
it, higher and higher. Ships were still passing down the beautiful 
calm river, gliding away silentl}'’ into the night and the sea — the soft 
hum of the village w'as behind us, the musical cadence ot these gen- 
tle waves filled the quiet air-, yet soothed it, and we stood together, 
saying nothing, str-angers and solitary, knowdng i.atirre oul}' — one of 
us knowing God— but strangers to all the human people here. 

As we went back, many of the cottage doors wei'e closed, and 
throrrgh some ot the half-curtaincd windows we saw' the humble 
little Dimilies gathered together for the nrght. From the church, as 
we passed, there canre sounds ot music; the organist Inid been prac- 
ticing, I suppose— and the “ linked sweetness long drawn out,” the 
“ dying fall,” which commands the imagination more entirely than 
•anything perfect and completed can, w'as sterding into the darken- 
ing twilight as we passed oy the half-open door, i can not tell why 
all those sweet influences make even the happy pensive; but 1 know’ 
they brought such h(;aviuess to my heart, aud such tears to my eyes, 
as I would not like to feel again. Alice did not say anything- -per- 
haps she saw that 1 w’as cry mg; but 1 was very glad to get home, 
aud lay myself down upon my bed, ami seek the sleep which ahvays 
mercifully came to me. How glad 1 was always lo fall asleep! no 
other w’ay could 1 get rid ot myself and my troubles; they looked 
in upon me with my first wurkiug in the unwelcome light of the 
morning— but 1 had oblivion in my sleep. 


THE SECOND DAY. 

We were now in complete possession ot our little solitary house; 
our humble neighbors had become accustomed to us, and no longer 
clustered about their doors ami talkea in whispers wiien we came 
out tor our daily walk. 1 have no doubt that there was still much 
gossip, and even some suspicion, about Alice and me; but we w’ere 
inoffensive, aud W'cre not without means, so W'e were anno 3 -ed by 
no direct investigations into our history. We had no one in trie 
bouse with us. Alice aid everything; tor though 1 made a pretense 
of helping her, 1 did her little service. Sometimes 1 put my own 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


iro 

bedchamber in order, with a child’s satistaction, hut no small degree- 
of fatigue; and with so small a house, and so little trouble necessaiy, 
there was not much to do. 1 couid not bear Alice to be out of my 
presence; we eat together, sat together, walked together— I was- 
cpiite dependent upon her — altogetliei a great change had come upon 
me. 1 never had been what people call intellectual— but now in 
the day of my w^eakness how 1 clung to the womanly occupations, 
the womanly society — ajL to such a poor thing as gossip, uhich was 
only redeemed from being the very vulgarest of amusements, be- 
cause It was gossip ot the past. When 1 sat at my sewing, with 
Alice talking" to me; when 1 listened to tales ot this one and the- 
other one, whom she had known m her youth— everything about 
them; their dress, their habits, their marriages, their cliikli*eu, their 
misfortunes; when 1 cut, and sewed, and contrived these pretty 
things 1 still was making, sometimes 1 was almost happy. Yes, if 
it was in reality a descent trom more elevated and elevating occupa- 
tions, ] still must confess to it; a woman after all is but a woman- 
and there are times when the greatest book, or the grandest imagina- 
tions in the world, have no attractions compared witli those of a 
piece of muslin, a needle and a thread. 1 felt it so, at least. 1 re- 
member the little parlor gratefully, with its round table and over- 
flowing work-basket, the beautiful river and the passing boats with- 
out, and Alice recalling the experiences of her vouth within. 

For all this time my only safeguard lay in trying to forget, or to 
turn my back upon, the great question of my life. I no longer 
brooded over the injury my husband had done me; it seemed to 
have floated away from my sight, and become an imaginalion, a 
vision, a dream. 1 could not even recall our life at Cottiswoode; 
when 1 attempted to return to it a veil fell upon my e^^es, and a 
dull remorse at my heart made the very attempt at recollection in- 
tolerable to me. Instead of (hat, the bright days before our mar- 
riage, the bright da 3 ’s after it, continually, ana even against my 
will, came to my mind. 1 went over and over again the course of 
our happy journey ; 1 recalled all our hopes, all our conversations, 
all our plans for the future; and this was all over, all gone, vanished 
like a tale that is told! It is not wonderful that 1 should try with 
all my might to keep myself from thinking. It was dreadful to 
fall into such a reverie as this, and then to awaken from it, and 
recollect how everything really was. 

I had heard from my agent in Cambridge, and had received money 
from him. W^e were" plentifully supplied, yet needed very little 
"We lived as simply as any peasant women could have lived; and 
though we had now a few flDwers in tlie little fantastic flower-pots 
befoi^ the windowL and had dismissed the shabby evergreens, and 
pruned the “traveler’s joy,” we had made no other alteration in 
the house. It was now May, nearly the middle ot the month, and 
perfect summer, for, as 1 have said, everything w^as unusually early 
this year. No letters except the agent’s had come to me. I thought 
my husband w'as content that 1 should be lost, and have my own 
will. When 1 was quite alone, 1 sometimes thought that he w^ns 
eased and relieved by my absence, and the thought cost me some 
bitter tears. 1 could not bear to be of no importance to him; and 
then I fretted mj'self with vain .speculations. Why was he so angry 


180 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


when 1 spoke ot Flora Ennerdale? If he had but married Flora 
Enucrdale, how happy she would have made him: and 1 —I would 
have pined and died in secret, and never done him wront?. So 1 
thought in my fond, wretched, desolate musings. Fond!— yes, my 
lieart had escaped from me, and flown back to him, I would not 
for the world have whispered it to any one — 1 refused to acknowl- 
edge it to myself — yet it was true. 

1 w^as alone in the house, and these thoughts had come strongly 
upon me. Alice was very reluctant to leave me alone, and only 
when she was compelled by some household necessity went out 
without me; but she had vvanted something this afternoon before 
the time of our usual walk, and 1 was sitting by myself in the silent 
little house. Though 1 avoided solitude by every means in my 
power, 1 yet prized the moment when it came to me — and 1 
had been indulging myself in dreaiy longings, in silent prayers, and 
weeping, when Alice returned. She came in to me very hastily, 
with a good deal of agitation in her face, and when she saw my 
€3’’es, in which, i suppose, there were si^rns that 1 had been crying, 
she started, and cried, “ Have you seen him? have you seen him 
already?” 

” Seen him— whom?” 1 cried, with a great shiver ot excitement; 
wdiat a useless question it was! as well as if I had seen him, 1 knew 
he must be here. 

She came and took my hand and bent over me, soothing and 
caressing. ” Darbng, don’t be startled,” said Aliee; ‘‘oh, how 
foolish lam! 1 thought you had seen him when 1 saw the water 
in your eyes. Dear Miss Hester, keep a good heart, and don’t trem- 
ble — don’t tremble, there’s a dear! I’ve seen him, indeed — he’s here, 
come to see 5 on, looking wmn and worn, and very anxious, poor 
young <rentlemau Oh, take thought ot what you will say to him. 
Miss Hester! every minute 1 expect to hear him at the door.” 

‘‘ It was a great shock to me; 1 felt that there was a deadly pallor 
on my face— I felt ray heart beat with a stifled rapid pulsation. 1 
could not think ot anything. 1 could not fancy what 1 would say. 

1 was about to see him, to hear his voice again. 1 felt a wild de 
light, a wild reluctance; 1 could have risen and fled from him— yet 
it seemed to lift me into a sudden Elysium, this hope of seeing him 
again. Strange, inconsistent, perverse — 1 could not be surelfor a 
moment what impulse 1 would follow. 1 sat breathless, holding 
my hand upon my heart, listening with all my powers. I seemed 
for the instant to be capable of nothing but of listening for his loot- 
step; my physical slrength and my m.ental were alike engrossed. I 
could neither move nor think. 

1 do not know how long it was; 1 know there was a terrible in- 
terval, during whicii Alice talked to me words which I paid no at- 
tention to, and did not know— and then it came, that well known 
footstep. 1 heard the little gate swing behind him— i heard tin 
gravel crushed beneath his quick step, and then Alice opened the 
door, and a sudden lull of intense emotion came over me. He was 
before me, standiofr there, yes, there!— but a dizzy, blinding haze 
came over my eyes— after the first glimpse I did riot see him, till i 
had recovered asrain. 

And he was not more composed than 1 w'as; not so much so in 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


181 

appearance, T believe. He came up and held out'his hand, and 
when 1 did not move, he tooK mine and held it tightly — tightly be- 
tween his, and gazed full into my face, with his own all quivering 
and eloquent with emotion. At this moment the impulse tor which 
I had been waiting'came to me, and steadiel my tremulous expecta- 
tion once more into resolve; once more the bitterness which had 
perished in his absence returned with double force— his own words 
began to ring in my ears, and my cheek tingled wdth the fiery flush, 
of returning resentment. 1 had deceived him; he had married a 
sweet and tender woman, and when his eyes were opened, he found 
by his side only me. 1 thought no longer of my bridegroom; my 
yearnings tor affection were turue<l into a passionate desire for free- 
dom; it was not Harry, but Edgar Southcote, on whom 1 looked 
with steady eyes. 

He, 1 am sure did not and could not notice any change of expres- 
sion; he saw my color vary, that was all— but his own feelings were 
sufficiently tumultuous to occupy him. 

*' Hester,” he said, ” Hester, Hester!” He did not seem able to 
say any more — he only stood before me holding my hand very close, 
looking into my face with eyes in which everything else was veiled 
by his joy in seeing me again. 1 saw it was so — heaven help m 2 — 
what a miserable torturer 1 was! my heart gave a ho'und of wild 
delight to feel my power over him still. 

When 1 made no response he forced me at last; already he w^as 
chilled, but he tlid not change his position— he held out both his 
hands, his arms rather, tears came to his eyes, and with a longing, 
wistful, entreating gaze he fixed them upon me. ” Hester, come!” 
he said, “come— 1 have the only right to support you. In the 
absence and solitude we have found out now it is that we are bound 
to each other, not by promise and vow alone, but my heart and 
soul, in strife or in peace we have but one existence. Hester, 
come back to me— come! let us not be sending our hearts over the 
world after each other— we can not be separated —come back to 
me!” 

How true it was, how true it was! but the heart that had been 
yearning for him, half an hour ago, was beating against my bosom 
now with miserable excitement, resisting him bitterly and to the 
death. 

” Why should 1 come back,” I said; “has anything changed? 
are our circumstances different from what they were?” 

” Y’es,” he cried eagerly; ‘‘ we have been apart— we have found 
out our true union— we have learned what it is to pine tor a look, 
the very slightest, of the face most dear in the world to us. We 
have found how transitory, how poor all offenses and resentments 
are, and how the original outlives and outlasts them. Hester, do 1 
not speak the truth?” 

1 dared not contradict my own heart and say no— 1 dared not do 
it — everything he said was true. 

” 1 do not mean to suppose that it is self-denial on my part and a 
desire to test this, which has made me so slow of following you,” 
he continued, gi owing heated and breathless as he found that I did 
not answer; “'”1 have but newly found out your retreat, Hester— 
found it out after long and diligent searching, which has given me 


182 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


many a sick heart for a month past. 1 need not describe the dis- 
tress into which your flight plunged me: when you passed me ou 
the road 1 was stiiick with a pang of fear, but I refused to entertain 
it. Tiiink how 1 felt when 1 went home, and saw the pitying looks 
of the servants, and found your pitiless note upon my table! They 
told me you placed it there yourself, Hester; and when 1 entered that 
room, 1 sat idly thinking of you, trying to fancy where 3^011 stood, 
wondering, wondering if there was no truth nor mercy in your 
heart.” 

The recollection of that moment rushed back ou me as he spoke; 
he saw the convulsive trembling which came upon me, he heard the 
sob which 1 could not restrain; thus far .1 betrayed m 3 ^self. 1 could 
not remember that unnioved; but when he bent over me with easrer 
anyieiy 1 drew my hand away and said 1 vvas quite well - quite 
well, i needed no support. 

” Hester,” he said in atone of such tenderne.ss that it almost over- 
powered a)e, ” 1 know 1 am trying your strength severely; 1 may be 
inexcusable — 1 ma}’^ be hazarding your health with m}’' vehemence: 
tell me if it is so — 1 will not speak another word, 1 will rather give 
up all my own hopes. God forb d that you should suffer for my 
violence; speak to me— sa}^ one word, Hester — tell me what 1 am 
to do.” 

” 1 can bear to hear all you have to say to me,” 1 said with a 
burning blush upon my cheek. The exertion 1 made to maintain 
my own calmness was exhausting me dreadfull 3 ', but 1 could bear 
it better when he spoke, and when my natural spirit of resistance 
was roused by his words, than when he went awaj’- or was silent, 
w'heu 1 would be left to the consuming remorseful persecution of 
my own thoughts. 

When 1 said this he looked at me steadily and sadly; — ” AYas it 
hopeless, then— would 1 receive him in no fashion but this?” 1 met 
his gaze with the blank look of sullen resentment; he turned away 
from me witii a sigh, and wrung his hands with impatience; then 
he came back, took the chair in which Alice had been sitting, and 
sat down opposite to me. 

“Then it is to be so,” he said with suppressed bitterness; 
“neitlier time nor solitude, neither tenderness nor absence, says a 
gentle word for me in your heart; you are resolved that we shall be 
miserable, Hester; you will leave me to the pity of the servants, you 
will show none; 3 ^ou will condemn me to frightful anxiety, anxiety 
which 1 dare not venture to anticipate — you will shut me out from 
every right — 1 must not be near, 1 must not try to support you; is 
this what you quietly doom me to, Hester?” 

” You use strange words; 1 doom you to nothing,” said 1; ” we 
were very wretched when we were together— you told me you were 
deceived in me, and 1 also was deceived in you; all thatl liave done 
is to come away, to free each of us from a galling and perpetual 
slavery. If I give no pity, 1 ask none— Jet justice be done betweeu 
us— and it is justice surely to permit me to take care for m 3 ^self 
when 1 do not encumber 3 'ou. You have not more to suffer or to 
complain of than i have; we are on equal terms — and so long as 
we are apart we can not drive each other mad, as you said 1 would 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 183 

do to you; 1 beseech you to be content — let us remain as we are; it 
■will be best tor ue both.” 

If 1 was agitated when I began to speak, lhad become quite calm 
before 1 ended. He never withdrew his eye from me— he followed 
my niotions, almost my breath — and when 1 moved my hands and 
clasped them together, as 1 did to support myself, his gaze turned 
to tnem— my hands were thin and worn, and very wiiite— they looked 
like an invaliil’s. Before 1 w^as aware, he bent over and kissed 
them, saying, “ Poor Hestei ! poor Hester!” Ah, it was veiy hard 
for me to keep up to my resolution, reading his thoughts as i did 
with an instinctive certainty. He was not thinking of my unkind 
and bitter words— he was tiiinking only of me. 

But wdien he spoke after this pause 1 saw clearly enough that my 
words had not escaped him; he did not entreat any longer; he saw 
it was vain; but the kindness of his tone was uudiminished. 1 
fancied 1 could perceive the resolution he had taken now; that he 
had made up his mind not to strive with me, but leave me to my- 
self. 1 would rather he had persecuted me with the most violent 
and perpetual persecution; that 1 could have met with courage; but 
I knew what a longing, yearning, remorseful misery would come 
upon me when 1 was left to the sole company of my own heart. 

‘‘ 1 will wait till you come to think of something else than jus- 
tice,” he said kindly but sadly. “ To have my rignts yielded to me 
only because they are rights, will never satisfy me, Hester— 1 warn 
^mu of this n(;W; but you are not doing justice; Iknow that you can 
have no doubt what are my feelings to you; you know what my 
love is, but not how much it can bear, and you treat me with cruel 
injustice, Hester. Enough of this — 1 will plead my own cause no 
more— 1 leave everything to yourself. By and by I do not doubt 
you will see my rights in a different aspect; but I will not be con- 
tent with my rights,” he continued, growing unconsciously vehe- 
ment; ” when you are willing to do me justice 1 will still be dissat- 
isfied. It is not justice 1 want from you— and the time of our 
reunion will never come till you reject it as 1 do. 1 know that 1 am 
right.” 

“ It w’ill never come,” said I, under my breath. 

” The most wretched criminal has hope, Hester,” he saitl, rising 
with impatience which he could not control, and coming to the 
window, ” and 1 am not so much wuser than my kind as to be 
able to live without it. 1 have need of humility and patience, 1 
grant you, and these are difficult qualities— but I will quarrel no 
more on my own account, and it is hard to maintain a feud on one 
side only. Will you permit me to live near you, since you insist 
on leaving me? will you let me see you now and then? will you 
let me be near at hand, it by any chance you should relent, and 
wish tor me? In your present circumstances, this is no great boon 
to yield to your husband, Hester.” 

” AVhat end would it answer?” 1 said, though my heart leaped 
with a strange mixture of joy and pain at his words; ” I am sure 
we are better quite apart.” 

“ Be it so,” he said, and then became forward to me very gravely; 
“ 1 wait your time, Hester,” he said, taking my hand once more, 
■with a face of serious and compassionate kindness, ” we have both 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


184 

ot US much grief to go through yet, but I will w^ait and be patient; 
1 consent to" what you say; 1 will not intrude into your presence 
again till you bid inecome— you smile— you will never bid me come? 
that is in God’s hands, Hester, and so are you, my bride, my soli- 
tary suftering wite! 1 leave you to Him wdio will pnpport you bet- 
ter than 1 could. Farewell. It is a bitter word to say, but 1 obey 
jmu. nestei—Hester — not a word tor me! farewell.” 

He stooped over me, kissed my forehead, wrung my hand, and 
then he w^as gone. 

He was gone; — 1 gazed with aching eyes into the place where he 
had been; here this moment; gone perhaps forever. 1 cried aloud 
in wild anguish; I thought my heart would burst; it required no 
long process, no time nor thought to change my mad reberiious 
heart again; 1 could struggle wdth hinr, resist him, use him cruelly 
while he was but here before me; but when he w^as gone— oh, when 
he was gone! 

When Alice came in 1 was sobbing aloud and convulsive!}’ ; i 
had no power ot self-restraint; all my pride and strength w’ere 
broken down. ” He is gone,” 1 repeated to myself; ” he is gone,” 
1 could think ot nothing else. Alice spohe to me, but 1 did not 
hear; she tried to lift me from the sota, w’here I lay burying my 
face in my hands, but I would not let her touch me; no one had 
ever seen such violence — such a wild outbreak of passion and 
misery in me before. 

It w’as all my own doing — there w:is the sting ot it! I could ask 
sympathy from no one, confess my distress to no one. My own 
lieart stung me, upbraided me, made n»alicious thrusts and wounds 
at my weakness. 1 had done it all myself — what diil 1 think ot my 
miserable handiwork? 1 had made my own life, and this was tlie 
result of it. I had cast him away — cast him away, i could not tell 
why. 1 could remember nothing cruel that he had ever done to me, 
and he would come back no more. 

” Miss Hester, you will kill yourself,” cried Alice indignantly. 1 
heard these words as if they were the first she had said, and with 
an immediate and powerful effort 1 controlled myself. No, 1 would 
not endanger the future, 1 would not lose everything. 1 raised my- 
self up and returned to my work; I tried to forget wiiat had hap- 
pened — that he had actually stood there before me, that this little room 
bad held him, that his voice was still ringing in the dim subdued 
atmosphere. Every time 1 thought of it 1 trembled with agitation. 
The day was the same, yet it was different; the hours went on as 
usual, yet how totally changed they w’ere. It w’as over — the event 
1 had been unconsciously, involuntarily looking forw’ard to. This 
dimiued, dull life was to go on now with no new expectation in it 
— it was all over; he had promised to let me alone. 

And there w'as Alice, looking at me with eager, solicitous, in- 
quiring eyes, anxious to know wiiat had been said, w’hat had hap- 
lened, wondering at my strange mood, trying to find out, with her 
own thoughts and looks, how 1 felt. Alice could not comprehend 
me. When her first belief, that 1 did not care for him, was shaken 
she could find no reason for my conduct, no cause for all 1 liad 
done; she did not understand my perversity: in the motives ot her 
own simple Christian heart she found no clew to the pioblem of 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


185 

mine. Sbe put no questions to me, but sat, where be had been sit- 
tino;, sad, disapproving, full ot wonder, her hope disappointed and 
her love grieved, aware 1 was wrong, yet reluctant to think so. 
Poor Alice! I was a great charge to her, and a perplexing one; she 
tlid not know how to deal with me. 

When 1 was able to command my voice, I spoke to her. “ Alice, 
Mr. Soutbcote has been here,” 1 said, ” but he has promised not to 
come back again. He will never intrude into my presence again, 
lie vsuys, till 1 call him, and i am not very likely to do that. When 
anything happens, Alice— 1 intended to have said so before— you 
will write to him without delay; remember, 1 told you so; he has a 
right to that.” 

The words struck me strangely as 1 repeated them. Had .l al- 
ready begun, according to his own prophecy, to calculate what his 
rights were? but he bad warned me that ne would find no satisfac- 
tion in that. 

” And is this all. Miss Hester?” said Alice, looking at me wist- 
fully; '‘oh, darling, well you know I’ve never said a word, I’ve 
never dared to take part with him that should have needed no help 
from a pc.or woman like me— but 1 can’t keep silent. Miss Hester— 
I can’t now; what’s in my heart 1 must say, tor you’re my own 
child. Miss Hester, dear, 1 can’t help it you’re angry— but what 
do you think a true friend can pray for you? one tlial loves you 
dear above all the world, what do you think she would be obliged 
to pray, the first thing of all that was in her heart?” 

1 was much startled by the question, for it was at once perfectly 
unexpected, and very solemnly and seriously put. 1 did not an- 
swer, but looked at her with earnestness as great as her own. 

“First of all. before even the safety, and the blessing, and the 
joy — oi», Miss Hester!” cried Alice, with strange emotion, “ that 
you may be made to see which is good and which is evil, and to 
choose the right way. 1 dare not ask the blessing first, darling — 1 
dare not! I’d lay down my life for an hour’s cornfort to you. Miss 
Hester; 3 ^ou know it’s not boasting, you know it’s true— but 3'ou’re 
following a wrong way, and sorrow is the right thing to come to 
that, rather than joy. "l can not help it— you may put me away 
from you, as you’ve put a better love than mine — but I must say 
what’s in my heart.” 

1 could neither be angry, nor indignant; I could not meet Alice’s 
unexpected severity as she thought 1 would. 1 was no heroine, 1 
was only a woman, a poor, young, foolish, solitary woman. 1 cried, 
it was all 1 could do; 1 was almost glad she reproved me, glad that 
she thought God must punish and forsake me for my sin; I could 
not excuse or justitv^ myself, i had no heart to say anything— all 
my powers were exliausted; 1 could only lie upon my sofa, silent, 
not venturing to look at Alice, and doing what 1 could to restrain 
rny tears. But they would not be restrained; gentler and yet more 
abundant they fell from under the cover ot mj'- clasped bands, and, 
little as 1 intended it, this was indeed the only way in which I 
could have vanquished Alice. Sbe kept her own place for a few 
moments, trembling and irresolute, and then sbe came humbly 
toward me and drew my head to her bosom; “ Ob, darling forgive 
me, forgive me!” cried Alice, and lur tears fell as fast as mine. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


186 

When 1 found that 1 could not put an end to my own weepinir fits 
Alice grew very niucli alarmed. She brought an armful of pillow, 
and arranged them on the sofa, and made me lie down to sleep — 1 
obeyed her like a child— I took some wine when she brought it, and 
closed my eyes at her bidding. She sat by my side watching me, 
and when my eyelids unclosed a little, 1 saw her soft white apron 
close by my cheek, and almost thought 1 was sleeping with my head 
on her knee as 1 used to do when 1 was a little girl. At last 1 did 
fall askep, but 1 never was conscious that 1 had done so. 1 did 
not change the scene in my dreams: 1 was still heie, still in this 
room, and he was beside me again— but we did not speak of part- 
ing now— all that was over— that was the dream, and it was past. 
1 do not recollect that there were any words to make our reunion 
sure, but there did not need any, for 1 was completely persuaded 
of it in that strange real dream. When 1 woke, Alice was still sit- 
ting by me, and there was the strangest ease and satisfaction in my 
heart. L looked past her eagerl 3 % and round the room, and asked, 
“ Where is he? where is he?” She did not speak, and then 1 knew 
that it was all a dream. 

But 1 would not break down again. 1 sat erect and took up my 
work, and told her 1 w’as quite well now', though my head was 
aching violently, and my heart sunk with a dreary heaviness. A 
cup of tea would do me good, Alice said, and she lett me to prepare 
it. When 1 was alone 1 went to the window' and opened it to let in 
the fresh sw'eet air upon ni}' hot brow. Yes, it was the happiness 
and the reconciliation that were a dream; the w'retched solitude, 
the remorse, the hopelessness, were real things; and what was the 
future? 1 could not help a shudder of expectation and terror. My 
truest, dearest, most indulgent friend — Alice herself — was almost 
afraid to ask a blessing for me. hitherto I had alwaj'S asked it my- 
self, but her words arrested me; 1 onl}' wondered wiiat kind of judg- 
ment God would send to mark my sin — w'ould it be only death? and 
W'hile once more a few tears fell from my eyes, 1 began to think ot 
the letter 1 should write to my husband to be given him when J was 
gone awa}’’ forever; ot perhaps the precious legacy J should leave 
him; the gift that w'ould pay him tenfold for all his grief and 
trouble with me. These thoughts soothed me. When Alice re- 
turned, 1 withdrew from the window, and came to the table and 
took the tea she ponied out tor me. 1 w’as subdued and exhausted. 

1 was not now so miserable as 1 had been. 1 pleased m 3 'self with 
the iilea of making this last atonement, of putting an end to the 
misery of our wedded life, and to the problem which 1 did not 
know how to solve otherwise, by the early death which every one 
would shed a natural tear for. Once more 1 wiped a few tears'froin 
my own cheek, and then 1 went upstairs veiy quietly in my ex- 
haustion to prepare for our wa^k. 

When we went out, I was less composed. 1 remembered then 
that he had trod this same path only a few hours ago, that, perhaps, 
he still was here. 1 hurried Alice on — I looked back and around 
with a stealthy eagerness— in}' heart began to beat and my breath to 
tail as this occurred to me. He might be here — he might even see 
me uow with my lingering feeble footsteps, and read in my face 
traces of the wild and strong emotion which had visited me since 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


187 

he came, 1 drew my veil over my face, 1 hastened to the very 
margin of the (\’ater, where uo one could see me closely. Wherever 
1 turned 1 was possessed with the idea that from some eminence — 
some visionary height— he was watching me, and inlerpreting my 
very movements. 1 did not desire to escape — though 1 hurried 
about restlessly, 1 did Eot wish to return again; and it was only 
when the darkness fell that Alice persuaded me to go home. Alice 
did not know what was passing in my vexed and troubled mind. 1 
thick now my physical weakness must have had a great deal to do 
with it— what a dreadful chaos it was! 


THE THIED DAY. 

A LITTLE low cry— what was it? 1 never heard it before, yet it 
went to my heart, almost with a pang of delight. Alice, bring it— 
bring it! 1 can not wait for all those snowy robes, and all the joy- 
ful teartul importance of my dear, dear, kind nurse, my almost 
mother. Here in its little flannel wrapper — a little moving bundle, 
thrusting about its little limbs, turning round its little downy head 
with the first instinct of life to that kind bosom, crying its little 
wailing cry — oh, kindest heaven! oh, God most wonderful? is it 
mine, mine, my own child? 

1 felt neither pain nor weakness. 1 consented to lie still, because 
they said 1 must, and because 1 was happy beyond expression, and 
neillier rebellion nor disobedience was in me. 1 lay quite still, 
pulling back the curtains to look at Alice as she put on those daint}'^ 
little garments, one by one — to look at the moving thing upon her 
knee, the little hand thrust up* into the air, the vigorous kicks and 
thrusts with which it struggled. It! a spark of sudden anger woke 
in me when some one said it — that was correct enough half an hour 
ago — but this was he, an individual being, my baby, my own, 
mine! 1 can not tell to anyone the rupture in which 1 lay watching 
Alice as she put upon him his first little robes. 1 was in a woman’s 
paradise — a moment which can come but once in a life-time. What 
mother does not remember, after all her dread, her awe, her suffer- 
ing, the lieavenly rest in which she lay looking at her first-born? 1 
think there is no such ecstasy either before or after; it is all over — 
all over! the ordeal which frame and spirit have been trembling at, 
are past like a dream, and w ho remembers them? and in that strange 
delicious luxury of ease, and weakness, there seems no longer any- 
thing to desire. 1 do not know — perhaps it is not an elevated idea 
at all — but my best realization of the unspeakable happiness was in 
that hour after my little boy was born. 

AY hen that most important toilet was finished, Alice brought him 
to me in the long white robe, which with my own'needle-work, and 
the pretty close cap covering his little downy head. She laid him 
down on my arm, and drew a step apart, and looked at us both cry- 
ing tor joy. “ Bless you, my darling!” cried Alice: and then she 
fairly ran away with her bright tearful face, and 1 knew very well 
it was to relieve her full heart, and spend tier tears. 

And 1 lay here with my baby on my arm alone. He did not mind 
who watched him, as he knitted his baby brows, and twisted his 


188 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


Lab}’’ mouth, and clinched lug harmless fists, till I laughed and cried 
together in indescribable delight. Then a change came over me. 
1 wanted some one to share my happiness— to show my treasure to. 
Some one — oh, what cold words these were! 1 wanted one — ouly 
one— to make my joy perfect. My heart expanded over my baby, 
with such a sense ot want, ot incompleteness. 1 cried aloud, “ Oh 
Harry, Harry, Harry!” Where was the father to see and bless the 
child? This blessing which every other mother had, I had cast 
away from me. 

1 could not put his intact into his arms— 1 could not watch the 
joy on his lace to biighten Hie light upon my own. I wept now 
after another fashion. I turned my head aside that my tears might 
not fall upon my baby. Oh, Harry, Harry! 1 was content you 
should be away from me in the evil'time, but it broke my heart to 
be alone in my great joy! 

Alice could not see how 1 had been moved when she returned. 1 
took care to conceal my tearful eyes from her — and indeed it was 
not hard to return to gladness, looking upon the face of my child. 
She brought me a cup of tea, and pretended she had only gone away 
to fetch it. “I did, indeed, Miss Hestei,” she said, with a tearful 
smile that belied her; ” though to tell the truth, 1 had a good cry 
when 1 got down-stairs. Dear, do but look at him, with his sweet 
little fist doubled Will 3"Ou beat 5^our mamma already, baby boy? 
and a son too! Darling, I’m sure you don’t know what to say for 
joy.” 

Oh, Alice, it is all beyond saying,” said I. ‘‘ 1 don’t know why 
this should have come to me, when even you yourself— you who are 
alwa3''s kindest— did not dare to ask a blessing tor me; and after you 
said that, Alice, 1 never dared to ask one for myself.” 

” But 1 did not mean that. Miss Hester,” said Alice, humbly; ” 1 
did crave for the blessing night and day— and here it is, bless his 
dear little heart! the sight of him brings back my pleasant da3’^s to 
me, dear. A woman never has such a joy as a baby. Do you 
shake your head at that, Miss Hester? My darlincr, you’ll come to 
know.” 

1 do know, Alice,” 1 said under my breath; ” 1 never was so 
happy before, nor so thankful, nor— so sad. If 1 do not die he will 
have nobody but me, and what can 1 do for him? Alice did you 
think of what 1 told you? do ymu remember you were to write 
when all was over? 1 thought then 1 was sure to die.” 

“Everyone does, dear,” said Alice, cheerfully; “but there’s 
nothing about dying now, darling. We can’t have that; and Miss 
Hester, have you ever thought what was to be bab3*’s name?” 

Once more 1 was taken by surprise. Once more 1 turned my face 
from him, that his sweet clieek might not be fretted by tears. 1 
could say only one word— “ Harry ” — but that was enough for 
Alice. Her face brightened again, and she stooped over baby to 
give me lime to recover myself. Alice was a wise nurse and would 
not even notice my agitation; so 1 made an effort to subdue it, and 
was calm once more. 

“ Alice, you will be sure to write,” 1 whispered; “ and— well, you 
have seen other babies — do 3’^ou really thinlj he is very pretty, or is 
it only because he is our own?” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


189 

Alice satisfied me by a great many assurances. “ Babies are not 
always pretty, darling,” said the impartial Alice: ” 1 have seen the 
oddest little things — though their mothers were always pleased; but 
Master Ilarr}’^ is a noble boy! look how big he is— why he’s quite a 
‘ weight to lift already; and such a head of hair,” she continued, 
genUy pushing back his cap to show the silky down beneath ; ” and 
look here, Miss Hester, what arms! he might be a month old, bices 
him, instead of half a day — do 1 really think it? My darling, 1 
never, all my days, was called a flatterer before.” 

Kor had 1 the least inclination to call Alice a flatterer now, for, 
without any partiality, he really was a very beautiful boy, though 
he lay there winking, frowning, and making such pugilistic use of 
his little hands. L thought they were miracles, these little hands, 
when it pleased him to unfold them; such beautiful little miniatures, 
with their delicious soft touch, and tapered tender little fingers. 1 
bent down my cheek to put it into the way of those natural w'eapons 
of his as he fenced about with them. 1 could have cried again with 
delight at those small blows. Then Alice pretended he was too 
much for me, and lhat she could not permit me to get excited; 1 
knew ver}^ well this was only an excuse to get him into her own 
arms— but 1 was as glad of Alice’s joy as of my own. 1 had given 
her much to grieve her kind faithful heart, it was time 1 gave her 
something to make her glad; and what could do that so well as my 
baby boy? 1 watched her walking softly up and down the room, 
holding him so daintily, so prettily, upon both her hands — and then 
she removed him to one arm, and made a reclining couch of it, 
where he seemed to lie so easy, so securely, with his head upon her 
bosom. 1 looked, andwmndered, and envied. Only study and ex- 
perience could give such facility — and I had a strong impression 
tliat ] should be afraid to handle that little precious frame as Alice 
did. Somehow oi other it seemed to complete Alice, and maive her 
a perfect picture. The baby, with its ’ong streaming white robes, 
nestled so sw^eetly into her breast, looked a necessary adjunct to her 
now— I wmiidered how 1 should never have perceived the want of it 
before. I called her to me, and told her what i thought. Alice 
smiled with real gratification. ” 1 was thinking so myself, dear,” 
she said: ” 1 am ten years younger since this morning. But it goes 
to my heart. Miss Hester, tor it reminds me of old times.” 

She put up her hand to her eyes softly, though she still smiled; 
but those sw’eet tears of Alice’s would never liave chafed a baby’s 
cheek. Sweet resignation, pure love, tlie breath of a subdued ami 
chastened heart was in them. She was thinking of tliose wliom 
God had taken away, whom God would one day restore her to— they 
were different tears "from mine. 

When he tell asleep, Alice brought him back to me, and laid him 
down upon my arm once more. 1 watched for a wliile his sweet 
breath, his closed eyes, his baby face in its first repose— and then’ a 
(Irow'sim-ss crept over me, and I, too, fell asleep; it w^as such a sleep 
as 1 had slept once before, the day when my husband came. I 
knew 1 was lying here with my baby in my arms. I realized all 
the immediate joy that w^as in my heart — but 1 dreamed that 1 was 
presenting his child to Harry— that 1 was telling him how 1 had 
named the baby already— that 1 w'as pouring out all my thoughts 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


190 

aucl all my desires into the only ear m the world that could hear 
everything that was in m}’’ heart; and there was not a care nor a 
cloud upon me — again they seemed only rtreams and this happiness 
was the truth. 

When 1 awoke it was with a slight start, and 1 was strangely be- 
wildered to see that Alice had lifted baby from my arms, had 
wrapped him in a great sliawl, and was carrying him away. 
“ Where are you going Alice?” 1 cried in alarm. She was confused 
when she saw me awake and hesitated tor a moment. ‘‘ My darling, 
1 am only going to let little master see the house he has come home 
to,” she said, with an attempt to be playful, which only called my 
xittention to the tremble in lier voice; ” wee’ll come back again this 
moment, dear,” and she carried him away down-stairs. A suspicion 
ot what it was came to me and 1 listened eagerly. I heard her slow 
careful step descending; then 1 heard a suppressed exclamation. 
Neither my prudence nor my regard for my own health could re- 
strain me; 1 was not able to subdue the wild beating of my heart, 
my breathless agitation. Did they think they could deceive me? — 
did they think his voice or his step could be in the house and I not 
know it? 1 raised myself up a little, and listened with my whole 
heart and might. Yes, he had come to see his child — and it was 
Alice who showed my beautiful boy to him — it was not 1 . I could 
not liear his whisper — 1 thoughc myself that 1 could have heard 
and known it at any distance — 1 could imagine the scene; 1 could 
imagine his silent delight, his thanksgiving, his words of joy. 1 
could almost fancy myself a clandestine spectator, a stealthy looker- 
oti, beholding from behind a curtain the joy in which Iliad no share. 
Oh, it was bitter! dreadful! — he rejoicing over our baby below — 1 
lying alone in my misery and weakness here. 1 did not think of 
him, watching without the door, shut out ot the house, while 1 was 
tasting first this exquisite and sacred joy. I thought but of myself, 
deserted, desolate, no one approving of me, no one commending me, 
my own very heart rising up in judgment, my every thought an ac- 
cuser, alone and solitary, my husband only caring to know that 1 
w^as safe, and desiring nothing more. 1 tliink 1 had such anguish 
in that moment as only comes to many, diluted through a whole 
life. How breathlessly 1 watched and listened— how conscious 1 
seemed to be of every movement !ind very word — how 1 started at 
the faint sound of baby’s voice, and hud almost spiung from my 
bed to snatch him at least to my arms! 1 w^ho was the only one 
who could still him, his mother, Ids nurse, the being upon whom 
his little life depended by nature. VVhy, even lor a moment, did they 
take him away from me? 

When Alice returned 1 did not say a word of my suspicions or 
discoveries. My heait sank when 1 heard the dooi close upon my 
husband— when 1 heard the step whose faintest echo 1 knew so 
well, passing through Mie gravel path of our little garden. Till then 
1 still retained an involuntary hope that at least he would request 
to see me— but he did not; he was gone, and his steps rang upon my 
heart with a dull echo as he passed out of hearing. 1 telt like one 
suddenly struck dumb— 1 could not speak- -1 could not shake off the 
weight and oppression upon my brain, and the bitter pang in my 
spirit. Already 1 telt a fever growing on me, but 1 did not com- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


191 


plain of it. My lips weie sealed; 1 could not say I was ill~l could 
uot speak a word. The little one was laid in my bosom once more^ 
and 1 held him with passionate tenderness; but even while 1 did so, 
I felt the sickness at my heart, and the cold dew on my forehead, 
and tlie fainting, failing sensation over all my frame. Still 1 said 
nothing; 1 seemed to be bound up within myself with a strange, 
terrible wakefulness and consciousness, like one in a niirhtmare. 1 
felt as one might feel who saw’ a murderer slowly advancing toward 
him while there w’as help at hand, yet wdio was paralyzed, and could 
neither move nor cry for deliverance. 1 held my baby close, till he 
cried and struggled — then 1 suffered Alice to take him aw’ay. 1 
heard her questioning and calling me; shecame and wiped my fore- 
head, and stooped down, and begged me to speak to her. 

“ Are you ill, darling? are you ill?” cried Alice. 

At last 1 said faintly, ‘‘ 1 suppose so;” and she rang the bell in- 
great haste to summon a wmman who waited down below’, and send 
her for the doctor. 1 w’as growing almost unconscious; the only 
clear thing 1 recollect in the chaos of indefinite pain and trouble 
which overwhelmed me, was baby’s little plaintive cry, and my 
anxiety to get him back into my arms. Faintly and dimly 1 could 
perceive Alice feeding him; and 1 did not feel quite sure whether 
my husband was, or was not, in the room, in my strange, half-de- 
lirious state. 1 was not sure of anything; 1 heard strange noises 
in my ears— sduietimes 1 thought 1 was lying in a dangerous place, 
and something from which I could not escape W'as hurrying upon 
me to crush me to atoms; and then again 1 was at Cottiswoode— 3 ’et 
always here, 'always conscious of baby and of Ali(;e. Hitherto the 
many and great agitations to w’hich 1 had been subject, or had 
brought upon myself, had done me no harm. As safely as though 
1 had been living the most placid life had this great trial been sur- 
mounted; but it was difitereut now. The cause was diflterent; al- 
ways before my husband had been but loo anxious to change my 
mind toward him himself. It was a new and dreadful experience, 
this leaving me alone; and i was exhausted and weaK, though 1 
had not expected it; the long arrears of past suffering came back 
upon me now. 

1 suppose ] must have been very ill for a few hours, 1 can not 
tell; 1 remember only a vague and feverish wretchedness, an ach- 
ina, longing desire to complain to someone, and a burning conscious- 
ness that 1 had no one on earth to complain to. 1 saw visions, too, in 
my illness;- unhappy momentary dreams— glimpses of my husband 
rejoicing with strangers— placing my baby in the arms of another 
— alw’ays deserting and forsaking me. My heart was shocked and 
w’ounded; it was not an ordinary stroke, but a blow unexpected, 
which struck beyond all my poor defeases, and laid me prostrate. 
Yet 1 could not have been long thus, for when I came to myself it 
was still the twilight of Hie same day. The room w’as darkened, 
and the candle burned faintly on the table at the extreme end of the 
little apartment- and there was a taint perfume in the room of some 
essence they had been using for me. It was June, a soft, mild, 
summer night, yet a little fire was burning in the grate for baby’s 
sake and by it sat the woman who had come to assist Alice, holding 
my child in her lap. The first sign 1 perceived in myself of ricov- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


192 

ery, was the indignant start with which 1 observed that this woman, 
1 suppose overcome by the heat and by doing nothing, was nodding 
and dozing at her post, i was not aware at the moment of liaving 
had anj^thing the matter with me. i looked up with a startled, in 
dignanl glance at Alice, who was bending over me anxiously. 
“Bring him to me, Alice," 1 cried; “or, if 1 must not havm my 
baby, do you keep him at least. She is a stranger; shedoes'not care 
for Him. Look, look, she has fallen asleep!" The woman started 
and opened her ey^es with a guilty look as I spoke, and Alice said, 
“ Yes, darling, yes’" as she bent over me and continued bathing 
my forehead. I put away her hand impatiently. “ Take him your 
self, Alice, or bring him to me,’ I cried again. 1 had a shuddering 
which 1 could not restrain at seeing him in this stranger’s arm^'. 

“ Do what she tells you," said the doctor, who w^as standing by 
the side of Alice, in a low tone of authority; “ she is better — bring 
the child to tier; she will be well now, if she can sleep.” 

Then Alice brought my baby and laid him in my'^ arms; my dear, 
sweet, innocent, sleeping child! what horrible desert had 1 been 
wandering in, since he was taken from my arms? He was sleeping 
so quietly, so softly! nothing knew lie of tlie subdued, yet still ex- 
isting pain, in the bosom his little head was pilk wed on. “ Sleeping 
like a child!" 1 knew now what the common saying meant. My 
cap and night-dress w’ere wet with the perfumed cool waters Alice 
had been bathing my brow with, and 1 had a contused pain and 
ringing in my Head, and the most complete exhaustion over me; 
but 1 was better, and lelt almost easy in my weakness in mind as 
well as in body'. When the doctor had given me a draught — 1 
suppose to make me sleep— he went away; and 1 was so much dis- 
turbed by the stranger in the room, that Alice sent her down stairs, 
and herself began to prepare for the night. 1 remember now, like 
■a picture, the aspect of that little dim room; the single candle burn- 
ing faintly tar aw'ay trom me; the summer night, scarcely dark; the 
pale, blue sky, looking in at the edge of the narrow blind; the bright 
sparkle of the little tire midway in the room, burning with a sub- 
rlued, quiet glee, us if in triumph over the summer warmth which 
needed this auxiliary. Beside me was a large, old-fashioned elbow 
chair, in which Alice was to watch, or sleep, as she said, and a 
round table with some eau de Cologne vials of medicine, a small 
flower vase, containing some roses, and a book. It was deep twi- 
light here in this corner, but my ey'es were accostomed to it, and 1 
could see everything; most clearly of all, 1 could see my baby’s 
sweet, slumbering face, and feel iris breath like balm, rising and 
falling upon my cheek. 

And then my eye, 1 can not tell how, was caught by' the book 
upon the table; when Alice came to her chair beside me, 1 toid her 
to read something. Alice was very tremulous and afraid, and 
feared 1 could not bear it — but 1 knew better; so she brought the 
candle nearer and began to read some cnapters trom the Gospel of 
John. 1 can not tell haw it was after that terrible fit of illness and 
anguish that 1 should have felt my mind so clear and so much at 
leisure— ii was like the tresh dewy interval after a thunderstorm 
when the air is lightened and the eurth refreshed. As Alice read, 1 
lay' perfectly' calm, holding my child in my arms, grave, composed. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


193 

thoughtful, aa if 1 had reached a new stage in my life. There 
seemed a certain novelty and freshness in those divine words; I 
was not listening to them mechanically— my imagination went back 
to the speaker, and realized what individual voice this was, address- 
ing me as it addressed all the world. What wonderful words these 
were, what strange meanings! Justice — justice — God’s meaning of 
the wont, not man’s; that He should bear it Himself— the grand orig- 
inal, universal penalty — He, the oftended one; no, not a weak, poor 
benevolent lorgiveness — not that, but justice, justice— divinest word! 
Justice which blinds the very eyes of this poor humanity with that 
glorious interpretation which only the Lord could give. That He 
should bear the punishment, and not the criminal — strange, strange, 
most strange!— the word read differently when man translated it, but 
this was how God declared the unchangeable miglit and power it 
had. To a wavering, disquieted hunan heart, struggling with its 
poor wrongs and injuries, rejecting pity, demanding justice, how 
wonderful was all this! Alice stopped in her reading after awhile, 
but my thoughts did not pause. 1 lay quite still, looking with my 
open eyes into the dim atmosphere, with its faint rays of light, and 
fainter perfume. How my coward fanciessluak and stole away out 
of sight, out of hearing, of Him who spoke. My justice and His 
justice, how different they are; did the same name belong to them? 
1 was not excited, 1 was not afraid; 1 thought of it all with a strange 
composure, an extraordinary calm conviction. 1 had no desire to 
sleep, yet 1 was quite at rest — i did not even feel guilty — only dole- 
fully mistaken, wrong, as unlike Him as anything could be; and 
able to do nothing but wonder at His sublime and wonderful jus- 
tice, and at the arrogant, presumptuous offense, which nad taken 
the place of justice with me. 

And then,^ at last, 1 fancy 1 must have fallen asleep, for 1 had 
strange sights of bars and judgments seats, ot criminals receiving 
sentence, and a terrible impression on my mind that 1 was the next 
who should be condemned, but that always a bright figure stepped 
in before me, and the Judge perceived me not. \Vheu 1 woke again 
it was deep in the night— Alice was lulling baby, the moon was 
shining into the room, and 1 was lying as quiet and as easy as if no 
such thing as pain had been in the world. 

“You are better, dear?’’ said Alice in a whisper of hesitating joy, 
as she came to me with some cool pleasant drink she had made. 
My heart was so light, 1 was almost playful. “ 1 think 1 am quite 
well,” 1 said. “ 1 ought to get up, and let you lie down, Alice; 
have you had a great deal of trouble with me to-day?” 

“ Hush, darlirig, no trouble,” said Alice, hurriedly, “hut you’ve 
had a bad turn; go to sleep, dear, go to sleep.” 

1 said, “ Yes, Alice,” as a child might have said it— and clasped 
my hands ana said the same prayers 1 had said on the morning of 
my wedding-day. 1 fell asleep in the middle of them, and ended 
this day in the deepest peacefulness— 1 knew not why. 


194 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


THE FOURTH DAY. 

I WAS now quite well, and it was July, the very flush and prime 
of summer. After that first day 1 had progressed steadily and was 
well, before 1 had any right to be well, according to Ihe established 
order of things — for though 1 was not robust, my health was of the 
strongest, and 1 had a vigorous elastic frame, which never long suc- 
cumbed. 1 would not listen to Alice’s proposal to have a maid for 
baby; as soon as 1 was able 1 took entire possession of him myself,, 
and did ever 3 dhing for my boy. 1 had no other cares or occupa- 
tions — he was my sole business, and he filled all my time with his 
requirements. hat a happiness it was! If 1 had been at Cottis- 
woode, and had a proper, well-appointed nursery, how^ much of the 
purest delight, how many of the sweetest influences, 1 must have 
lost! He was very raiely out of my arms, except when he slept, 
through the day, in the luxurious, beautiful cradle, such an odd 
contrast to the other equipments of the house, which we had got 
for him. 1 often smile at my own willful, voluntary poverty now. 
We had by no means changed the simplicity^ of our living, and I 
was my baby’s sole attendant, and was perfectly contented with this 
little, mean, limited house; but I sent Alice to London with the 
widest license to buy the prettiest baby’s cloak, the richest robes, the 
most delicate equipments for little Harry; and Alice, nothing loath, 
came back again with a wardrobe fit for a young prince. Sitting 
by the morsel of fire in the small bedroom upstairs, with its white 
dimity hangings, and its clean scanty furniture, 1 dressed my baby 
in embroidered robes more costly than a month’s housekeeping, 
and wrapping his rich cloak about him, and tying on. over his rich 
laced cap, the soft luxurious hat of quilted white satin which Alice 
had choseu to declare to every chance spectator the proud pre- 
eminence of his sex — a boy! 1 put on my own simple straw bonnet 
and went out with him, strajnng along the quiet toads, up and 
down the bank of the river, perfectly indifferent of what all the 
world might think, and smiling when 1 passed some genteel young 
mother of the village with her little maid trudging behind, carrying 
her baby. 1 trust my precious Harry in indifferent hands! No— 1 
only laughed at Alice’s oratory as to what became my station. 1 
bad no station here, and wanted none. The curate’s wife might 
lose caste if she wandered about, a volunteer nurse-maid, with her 
child— but 1 was entirely free to follow my own will, and follow 
it ] did, as, alas, 1 had always done, all my days. 

1 do not wonder that the people were bewildered what to think 
of me, and that gossip almost came to an end out of sheer amaze- 
ment. 1 was always dressed with the most extreme simplicity and 
plainness, but 1 always wore upon my finger that splendid heredi- 
tary diamond which was tiie curse of oui liouse. It was to he sup 
posed that 1 could not afford a nurse, yet there never had been such 
a magnificent baby wardrobe— very strange! nobody could make it 
out; and even the rector’s wile, who paid me the extraoiminary 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


195 

ilonor of a visit, after bab3’^'s baptism— though why she came 1 
could not conceve, for she vvas a ^^reat lad}% and chary of her pat- 
ronage-looked round with an odd, amused, bewildered smile at 
the luxurious cradle, standing beside the hard hair-cloth sola, and 
seemed slightly disposed to speak to me as she might have spoken 
to a capricious child. But 1 was wonderfully little moved by any- 
thing said to me, or of me; I went upon my own w’ay undisturbed. 
All those bright summer forenoons 1 walked about with my baby, 
w^atching my sweet flower grow and flourish in the sunshine, myself 
enjoying the glory and the beauty of those summer days, as I never 
had enjoyed them before; sometimes 1 sat down upon a sunny 
bank near the river, when little Harry was asleep, and watched 
the ecstasy and rapture of (he ships, as they flowed dowm entranced 
toward the struggles and tempests of the sea. 1 never wearied of 
my sweet burden, though 1 was so proud to say he grew heavier 
every day, and made boastful complaints of his weight, as mothers 
use. Often my thoughts were grave enough; sometimes 1 wept 
over my beautiful boy — but 1 could not resist the influences round 
me— the supreme delight of looking at his slumbering face— the 
sweet air that refreshed my own— the beautiful scene that still had 
power to charm me out of" my heavy thoughts. Man}’^ doubts and 
many' questions had agitated my mind since the day of my baby's 
birth, that day so full of joy, yet of humiliation and anguish. 1 
had never recovered entirely from the depression which my hus- 
band’s stolen visit to see his child had occasioned me. At the very 
time my heart was softening to him — yearning for him, at that very 
time it seemed his heart was closed against me. 1 had never since 
mentioned him to Alice— 1 did not pretend to ask her it she had 
written, nor to take any notice of his visit; and amid all the hap- 
piness I had with my child, in my own heart there was the most 
dreary doubtfulness as to what 1 should do. My heart was not 
sufficiently humbled to forget entirely its former mood. 1 could 
not subdue myself to call him back, even if 1 had not retained so 
-clearly in my remembrance that last visit of his, which was not to 
me. It seemed a strange dreary retribuiion for all my oflenses 
against him, that now he himself was content to let me alone— that 
he had granted at last, when 1 no longer desired it, my often- 
repealed request, and left mg unmolested — was it at peace? Alas, 
at peace was a very different matter! sometimes the words, “ 'Trs 
better in pure hate to let her have her will,” came over me with 
almost a ludicrous sense of my downfall and humiliation, but the 
smile was very’^ bitter and tremulous with which 1 acknowledged the 
caricature and satire on myself. 

Sc here I was content to stay, unsettled, doubtful, knowing noth- 
ing of what my life— or more than my life, my boy’s— was to be, 
waiting rf perhaps he would come or send, or make some appeal to 
me. Perhaps, Ipan not tell— perhaps if he had, my old perversity 
might have still returned, and 1 rejectea it; but he did not try^ me 
— and 1 could form neither plan nor purpose for the vague, dim 
future. 1 persuaded myself that 1 left it in God’s hands, but 1 
searched its dull horizon wdth my' wdstful ey'es, day by d;iy. And 
then another thing, a lauciful y'et not light diead, weighed upon 
me. When 1 sal in the sunshine on the bank of the river adjusting 


196 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


my baby’s veil, laying it back fiom his sweet face, as be lay sleep- 
ing on iny knee, with my ungloved hand, 1 shuddered at the sinister 
gleam of the diamond upon his innocent brow. My imagination 
was excited and restless; it did seem a sinister gleam as it flashed 
upon the innocent sleeper, and all the curse of the story returned to 
mj'^ mind, no more as a mere visional y legend, a tale half believed, 
halt smiled at, but as a real hereditary curse. {Suppose 1 should 
die, and my husband marry some sweet loving wife who would 
make up to him tor all he had sutlered with me— ouce 1 used to 
persuade m . self that 1 would he glad of that — and my boy should 
have another brother, who was not his mother’s son? When I took 
this possibility into my mind and pondered it, 1 almost thought, like 
the unhappy lady to whom it came first, that this fatal jewel blazed 
at me with malignant splendor like the eye of an evil spirit. JNo 
reasonings of mine could shake my terror of it. 1 was not wise 
enough, nor sufliciently courageous to banish this fanciful appre- 
hension from m3’- mind— and 1 trembled, and a cold dew of pain came 
upon my face as 1 thought of the lifelong enmit}’- and strife which 
might be perpetuated in this child, doubly a Southcote as he was, 
and born in an atmosphere disturbed and clouded by the ceaseless 
discord of his race. 

This day 1 was seated at my usual post on a grassy bank near the 
river. Baby lay in my lap asleep, his rich veil laid back round the 
edge of his hat, showing his sweet innocent face in a nest of lace 
and ribbons, warm with the subdued sunshine which fell intensely 
on his white cloak and robes, and upon me, but which 1 carefully 
held a little parasol to shield from his head. There was a slight 
fantastic breeze about, crisping the water, and blowing in small 
warm capricious gusts, now from one quarter, now from another. 
As usual, the river was bright with many passengers, and some 
pleasure-boats were setting out from our little bay — for there were 
now some London people in the village, which was a tiny watering- 
place in its quiet way. I had newly taken my seat, after a consid- 
erable walk, and was just drawing ray glove from my hand to put 
back a stray morsel of the down wdiich we called hair from baby’s 
forehead. My hands w'ere still thin and my ring had always been 
loose on my finger; this time, as it happened, it came off with the 
glove — and a little gust of wind rising at the moment, my glove 
blew away from me as I pulled it off, and the ring tell and rolled 
glistening down over the knoll to the edge of the beach, where it 
lay among the pebbles gleaming and sparkling like a living thing. 

1 never paused to lift my glove— 1 snatched upmy baby hurriedly 
and almost ran away. 1 wmuld not look back, lest 1 should see 
some one find it, and be obliged to acknowledge it as mine -but 
hastened along as if I had been stealing instead of only losing this 
precious ornament; 1 am sure 1 felt as guilty— for this was not an 
innocent and bond fide loss, and 1 trembled between hope and ter- 
ror. 1 had been out for some time, and, truth to speak, Master 
Harry had momentarily fatigued the arms of his mamma. Then, 
the capricious wind chose this time of all others to loose my hair 
from under ray bonnet and catch a wild, half- curled lock to sport 
with — and 1 had no glove upon my right hand, the only one which 
baby’s ample vestments permitted to be visible. In this case 1 hur- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


19 ? 

Tied on, meetinj? a London nurse-maid with some wild pretty chil- 
dren, wJio drew herself up in conscious superiority — meeiing the 
recior’s pony-carriage, with Mrs. Rector in it, who uoddecl tome 
wiih her usual amused disajmroving looh, and, 1 was veiy certain, 
lauffbed when 1 was past. ISraiehow or other 1 almost enjoyed these 
interruptions, as 1 hastened homeward with my gloveless hand and 
my face flushed with haste and exercise. I certainly could not have 
looked much like a miserable forsaken wife, or a self-consuming, 
passionate misanthrope when 1 reached our cottage door. 

The brightest face in the wmiid was looking out for me at the 
window— Flora! Flora Ennerdale! what could bring her here? But 
1 had scarcely time to ask the question when she ran out to meet 
me, as eager and joyful as her sweet, affectionate natiire could be. 
Flora seized upon my ungloved hand, and stood looking at me in 
her pretty shy way to see if 1 would kiss her. I did, this time, 
wdth real love and pleasure; and baby!— she took him, though 1 
only half consented, out of my arms, with a natural instinct for it, 
yet not with the perfect skill which 1 flattered myself 1 had at- 
tained to— and insisted upon carrying him in, very proud and de- 
lighted. ti) the little parlor, where she had already made herself 
quite at home, hut w^here her mother’s elderly maid, who had come 
with her, sat very dainty and friirid, much more disgusted with 
our penurious appointments than Flora was. For the first moment 
I was conscious of nothing but pleasure in seeing her; but then 1 
began to inquire within myself and to wonder— who had told her? 
who haii sent her? was she the investigating dove, the messenger 
to tell it the floods had abated? — a momentary pang of pique and 
jealous pride made me look gravely at Flora; but it was impossi- 
ble to look at her sw'cet, innocent face, and think of any hidden de- 
sign. No, she would tell me honestly why she came — Iwas sure of 
that. 

When Alice came in, Flora’s respectable attendant condescended 
to withdraw with her, and we were left alone. Flora had thrown 
down her bonnet and shawd upon the hair-cloth sofa, where she now 
hastily placed mine, after dismbing me with her own hands. 1 
took my low nursing chair, for 1 had now regained baby, but Flora 
stood before the window in her vide, floating, pretty muslin gown, 
so summer-like and girl-like; she was not disposed even to stand 
still, much less to sit down tor a reasonable conference, and all this 
while was running on with her pleasant voice and happy words, as 
light of heart as ever. 

“ Oh, Cousin Hester, how beautiful it is,” she cried; “ how did 
you find out such a lovely quiet place? and such ships! 1 have heard 
the boys speak of ships, but 1 thought there was always something 
nastj^ and noisy about them. 1 could look at these all day — how 
they float! what beautiful round sails -is that the wind in them that 
fills them out so?— and how they seem to enjoy it, Cousin Hester!” 

” How did you find me out, Flora?” 1 asked. - 

Flora hesitated for a moment, and then suddenly came and knelt 
down beside me. “ Dear Cousin Hester, Mr. Southcote camr and 
toJ.l mamma all about it. You wdll not be angry, cousin? Mamma 
thought it was not right of you, and Mr. Southcote came and ex- 
plained it to her, and said it was he that had been wrong, and that 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


198 

5 '^on had a right to be augry with him. Then he let us know when 
baby was b ^in-— oh, what a sweet rogue he is, Cousin Hester!— do 
you think there ever was such a pretty baby? — and then we had to 
come to London— about— about— sor^ business, and 1 teased mam- 
ma till she let me come to see you. idid so want to see you, and 1 
had something to tell you, too.” 

” What had you to tell me, Flora?” 1 asked, stifiening into pride 
again. This of course was some message from my nusbaud, and 1 
could not explain why 1 felt aggrieved that he should choose her 
for his messenger. 

Flora looked up wistfuby into my face — “ Have 1 said anything 
wrong— are you angry, cousin?” 

” 1 ^ 0 , no— why should 1 be angry,” 1 answered almost with im- 
patience; ” tell me what message you have.” 

“ Message! it is no message,” said Flora, her whole pretty face 
waking into blushes and dimples; ” it was all about myself. Cousin 
Hester— 1 am so selfish; it was something that happened to me.” 

1 saw how it was at once, and w^as relieved. ‘‘ Well, tell me 
what has happened,” 1 said. 

But Flora buried her pretty face and her fair curls in baby’s long 
robes, and laughed a little tremulous laugh, and made no answer. 

” Must 1 guess?” 1 asked, smiling at the girlish, sweet contusion. 
” 1 suppose, as people say, somebody has fallen in love with you— 
is that what has happened?” 

She looked up for a moment with a glance of delighted aston- 
ishment — ‘‘ How could you find itout. Cousin Hester?” said Flora; 
” it looks very vain even to. believe it; but, indeed — indeed, he says 
so — and 1 think it is the strangest thing in the wmrld.” 

Her innocent surprise and joy brought tears to my eyes. 1 re- 
membered myself the humility of a young heart wondering, won- 
dering if this strange gift of gifts, the love of romance and poetry, 
could really have fallen to its own share; yet Flora was so unlike me 
—and my eyes, worn with tears and watching, were they disen- 
chanted now? 

1 stooped to kiss her sweet blushing cheek. ” 1 must hear who 
he is, and all that you have to tell me,” said 1. ‘‘ Are they pleased 

at home? —and is he a hero and a paladin? It was very good of 
you to come and tell me. Flora.” 

” No, he is not a hero,” said Flora— and then she paused and 
looked up in my face, and made a breathless appeal to me, clasping 
baby’s little soft hand within both her own; ” Oh, Cousin Hester, 
will you come home! it must be so dreadftul to be parted — l can 
understand it now,” said Flora, with her sweet blush. ” Please, 
Cousin Hester, dear cousin! what matter is it it Mr. Southcote was 
wrong? he is so fond of you, he thinks there is no one like you; 
oh, will you come nome?” 

1 was taken by surprise; 1 could not help crying as the eager- 
young face looked up in mine. 1 was not in the least angFy; but 
alas, she did not know — how cr»uld she know? 

‘‘ Hush, Fbra, hush,” 1 said when 1 could speak; ‘‘hush, 
hush!” 1 could not find another word to say. 

“ You would be a great deal happier. Cousin Hester,” said Flora, 
kissing my hand, and clasping it with baby’s between her own. 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


199 


1 only repeated that one word “ Hush!” If my child himself had 
appealed to me 1 do not think 1 could have been more strangely 
moved. 

She said no more, but sighed as she gave up her guileless en- 
deavor; and now aeain the smiles and bluslies came beaming hack, 
and she told me of her own happiness; ne was a young landed 
gentleman in their immediate neighborhood, only five miles from 
Ennerdale, and if neither a hero nor a paladin, had managed tn 
make Flora very well contented with him, that was certain. And 
everything was so suitable, she said — and mamma and papa ware 
so much pleased— and the boys were wild about it— and they had 
come up to London to supply the bride’s wardrobe, and it was from 
this delightful occupation that Flora had spared a day to visit me. 

“And he has three sisters, Cousin Hester,” said Flora, “such 
pretty, good, nice girls— and they all live at the Hall; we have 
always been such friends, especially Mary and 1, and they will be 
such pleasant company. Oh! if you were only at Cottiswoode, 1 
think 1 should have nothing more to wish for. I can see mamma 
nearly every day, and Annie is almost old enough to take my place, 
and when Gus and the rest of the boys come home tor the holi- 
days, of coarse they will be as much at the Hall as they are at 
Ennerdale- and he is as fond of them all as I'am— and if you were 
at home. Cousin Hester, 1 think 1 should be almost too happy.” 

The only thing I could do was to draw my hand caressingly over 
the happy, pretty head before me. Flora could go on in her pleas- 
ant talk without any help from me. 

“ So that will be one thing to hope for,” said Flora; “ you might 
come and see me. Cousin Hester. Mamma is so busy getting every- 
thing, that she could not come down with me to-day; such 
quantities of things, 1 can not think what 1 shall do with them — 
and you know t never had a great many dresses before; just look 
what a child 1 am,” cried Flora, springing up with a hurst of 
laughter at herself, and opening a dainty little basket on the table, 
to bring out sundry bits of bright rich glistening silk. “ 1 brought 
them to show to you, cousin; 1 know* you don’t care for such 
things, but — but— you were alwa 5 ’^s so kind to me.” 

I was not so philosophical as Flora supposed. 1 think myself, 
that however universal the feminine love of dress may be, it is 
never so perfectly developed as in a happy young wife who has her 
babies to adorn and decorate as well as herself. Though 1 was far 
from happy, 1 felt the germ of this within me, and was nol at all 
indifferent to Flora’s pretty specimens. Wewere soon deep in a 
discussion of laces and satins, and fashions, matters in which Flora 
was so delighted to have my advice, and 1 so willing to give it ; the 
forenoon w^ent on very pleasantly while we were thus occupied. 1 
w'as pleased and drawn out of myself, and 1 had always been very 
fond of Flora; the sight of her happiness was quite a delight to 
me. 

When baby had taken his refreshment and been laid +0 sleep in 
his cradle— he w\as not much more than a month old, and slept a 
great deal, as, 1 suppose, healthy, vigorous children generally do— 
Flora went up to my room with me, for 1 wanted to give her some 
little present, such as 1 had; Flora w'as somewhat amused at tho 


200 


THE DATS OF HY LIFE. 


bare little room, tbescanty white dimity hangings, and clean povertj’’ 
of everything— and at baby’s little bath, and the pretty basket wdjicli 
at present held bis night-tliings only. “ Do you do everythinir for 
liim yourself ?” she asked, wonderingly. “Do )mu know, Cousin 
Hester, 1 should tliink that was so very pleasant— and to cany him 
about out of doors, as you were doing; oh, 1 should so like to be 
5 'our nursemaid, cousin!” 

“ Well, Flora?” 1 said, inquiringly, for she had stopped with 
hesitation, as it she wanted to ask something of me. 

“ Perhaps you would not like it, dear,” said Flora, in her caress- 
ing way; “ but 1 should not be at all hurt it you said so. Oh, 1 
should like so much to come here tor a few days! 1 could sleep 
on the sofa, 1 could help Alice, I always was handy— and 1 know 
you would let my carry baby sometimes when you went out. Will 
you write to mamma now, and ask her to let me come? Oh, Cousin 
Hester, do!” 

“ But, Flora, 3 ’'our mamma does not approve of me,” said 1, with 
an involuntary blush. 

Her countenance tell a little. “ Indeed 1 did not say so. Cousin 
Hester,” she explained, though with an embarrassment which made 
it very evident to me that 1 was right. “ She thought it wrong of 
you to go away, but ft was different after Mr. Southcote told her — 
and she is so very sorry tor you, dear cousin, and says she is sure 
you are not hap))y. Oh, indeed it was not at all hard to persuade 
her to let me come to-day! I am very bold to beg for an invitation, 
but 1 do so wish to come; cousin, you will write?” 

“ It would do me good to have you wdth me. Flora,” 1 said, 
sadly; “ but 1 think 1 have grown very foolish and nervous. I am 
almost afraid to write to your mamma. I fancy she can not see 
anything to excuse me— happy people are sometimes not the best 
judges, and she has never been very wretched, 1 am sure. And 
then, wdiat would he say? nobody can think \vell of me in Cam- 
bridgeshire; he would not like to have his young bride staying here. 
I am sure he would not, Flora.” 

“ Say you would rather 1 did not come. Cousin Hester,” said 
Flora, who was nearly crying; “don’t say such cruel things as 
that.” 

“ Yet they are true,” 1 said; “ 1 know what 1 have lost, and that 
few people can think well of me. It will be better not, dear Flr)ra, 
thongti it would be a great happiness to me. Now come here— this 
was my mother’s, and 1 have sometimes worn it myself. Y'ou like 
to be called like her, B'lora — will you wear it for her sake?” 

As I spoke 1 clasped upon her 'pretty neck the little gold chain, 
with its diamond pendant, which 1 had been so proud to wear on 
that first fated night when 1 met Harry. She had not yet dried her 
few bright tears of disappointment and sympathy, and one fell upon 
the gems, making them all the brighter. She still cried a little as 
she thanked me. 1 knew it was a gift to please her greatly, for 
pretty as it was itself, and valuable, it had an additional charm to 
her affectionate heart. 

“ And for your sake, cousin— am 1 not to like it for your sake?” 
cried Flora; “ 1 love to hear of her — but 1 love 3 'our very own 
self— may 1 w'ear it for your sake?” 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


201 


I answered her gratefully, as 1 felt; but as 1 opened the case which 
held my mother’s jewels, the same case which my father had given 
me in Cnmbridge, and which 1 had always carried about with me 
since — my ej^es fell upon Mr. Osborne’s present, the little chain with 
my mother’s miniature: my heart was softened; 1 was a mother 
myself, and knew now the love above all loves whicn a mother 
bears to her child — and 1 was terribly shaken on my own original 
standing-ground, and at the bottom of my heart knew myself bit- 
terly, cruelly wrong. My father, it was possible to fancy, might 
have been even more wrong than 1 was; and Flora’s sweet face, 
like hers, yet wanting something of the perfect repose and sweet- 
ness which this little picture showed, was the last touch that 
softened me. AVhen 1 put my mother’s diamond ornament on 
Flora’s neck, 1 clasped the miniature on my own. With my plain 
dress and total want of ornament — for 1 had not even a ring except 
my wedding-ring — the simple little chain and the circle of pearls 
round the miniature, made a great show. Flora came eagerly to 
look at it — I had never shown it to her before; she thought it so 
Deautiful — so sweet!— she never could be so vain as to let any one 
say she was like my mother after seeing that. 

And then we returned down-stairs to the early homely dinner 
which Alice had been at considerable trouble with. Alice w as much 
disturbed and humbled by the invasion of these visitors; she did 
not like the idea of any one finding us in our new circumstances — 
and Flora’s maid was a great affiict ion to Alice. “ She could have 
borne the j’^oung lady,” she said, ” but all the servants at Ennerdale 
and all the servants at Cottiswoode — everybody would know that 
Mrs. Southcote kept no nurse for her baby, and lived in a house of 
tour apartments, and waited on herself.” It w\as very galling to 
Alice — but she forgot it in the secret glow of delight with which 
she observed the miniature 1 wore. 

Flora did not leave me till it was quite eYenrng, and even then 
not without another petition that 1 would ” ask mamma’' to let 
her come for a longer visit. It was a great piece of self-denial, but 
1 steadily resisted her entreaties. I felt sure that Mrs. Ennerdale, a 
placid ima wakened woman, wdio knew nothing ol me nor of my 
struggles, could have no sympathy for me — and 1 rather would want 
the solace ol Flora’s company than expose her to her mother’s dis- 
approbation. 1 had voluntarily left my husband and my own 
house, perhaps wdth no sufficient cause, and 1 sternly doomed my- 
self to a recluse’s life, and determined to involve no one in any 
blame that belonged to me. 

In the early evening when the sun had just set— baby, by this 
time having had his full share of attendance, and Flora herself, by 
especial favor, having been permitted to place him in his cradle— 1 
set out wulh her to the railway, which w'as at a considerable distance 
from the village. But when we were ready to go, I suddenly re 
membered that 1 had but one glove, and Alice as siirldenly per- 
ceived the w^ant upon niy finger. ‘‘Do you not wear your ring 
to-day, df.ar,” whispered Alice, looking at me anxiously as she put 
my shawl round me. In the same whispering tone, but with guilt 
at heart, 1 answered, ‘‘ 1 lost it by the river this morning,” and 
Alice uttered a subdued cry of joy. 1 had happily forgotten it 


202 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


through all the day, but vvhen it occurred to me I felt considerably 
disturbed and timid. 1 could not persuade myself 1 liad lo^t it 
honestly. 1 fancied 1 could still see it gleaming among the pebbles 
at the water’s edge where 1 could so easily have picked it up— ami 
if it did come back to me after this, 1 fancied 1 should, more than 
ever, think it a fate. 

We had a long pleasant walk in the peaceful sweet evening. 
Flora’s Influence over me had always been aood — to-night she made 
me almost as light of heart as herself —and we parted with a great 
many hopes on her part of seeing me again before she left London, 
and with a good deal of sadness on mine. When 1 turned back 
alone, 1 found even a tear hanging upon my eyelash.. Her young, 
sweet, unshadowed hope was a great contrast to mine, but that was 
not what made me sad; 1 liked Flora — she seemed to connect me at 
once with the bright girlhood and young womanhood of w hich, in 
rny solitary life, I had known so little -and it grieved me to think 
that for a long time, perhaps forever, 1 might not see her again. 
Natural likings and desires came upon me so strangely in that un- 
natural position: I should have liked to go to Flora’s marriage, to 
help her in her preparations, to do all that young people, friends to 
each other, delight to do on such occasions; and the thought that 
her mother now, and, most likely, her husband hereafter, would 
rather discourage Flora’s affection for me, was rather a hard thought. 
As 1 turned my face homeward, the peaceful evening light was fall- 
ing into shadow over these quiet houses; from the church there once 
again came that faint inarticulate sound of music, solitary chords, 
struck at intervals, vibrating through the homely building and 
through the harmonious quiet of the air — and everything, except the 
passing ships, was at rest and at home. I turned my vistful eyes 
to them, perpetual voyagers! my overladen heart followed them as 
they glided out to the sea. Distance, space, blank void and far! 1 
fhouffht of the wilds of my own country, and of the endless, breath- 
less travel, the constant journey on and on to tiie very end of the 
world, w^hich my girlish fancies had thought upon so often. It 
seemed for a moment as though that, and that only, could ease the 
restless disquiet in my breast. 

“Mrs. Southcote— 1 beg your pardon for interruplincr you so 
abruptly,’' said oui village doctnr, coming up hastily to me, and 
perceiving how I started at the sound of his voice, which recalled 
me to myself, “ did you lose a ring to-day? My wife picked up 
this on the beach. It is yours, 1 think.’’ 

1 looked at him with blanlv dismay; though 1 did not look at the 
glittering jewel in his hand, of course 1 knew at once that it was 
mine— that it must be mine— and that malicious fate returned the 
curse to me. It was no use trying to deny or disowm this fatal 
gem. Malicious fate! what words these were, i sickened at the 
passion and rebellious force that still was in my heart. 

“ Y’es,’’ 1 said, almost with resentment, “yes, thank you, it is 
mine ’’—but 1 did not hold out my hand for it. The doctor looked 
amazed, almost distrustful of me. 1 was not comprehensible to 
him. 

“ It seems of great value,” he said, with a slight, half-indignant 
emphasis, “ and even in the village, 1 dare say, it might have fallen 


THE DAYS OF :my life. 


303 


into hands less safe than my wife’s. The river would have made 
small account of your diamond had the water come au inch or two 
higher. Ladies are seldom so careless of their pretty things, Mrs. 
Southcote.” 

hie was an old man, and had been very kind to me. 1 did not 
wish to oSend him, now that 1 recollected myself. “ It has very 
unpleasant recollections to me, doctor," I said, as 1 put it on my 
finger; " 1 almost was glad to think 1 had lost it— but 1 thank you 
very much for taking the trouble; and will you thank Mrs. Lister 
for me? it was very kina of her to pick it up.” 

The old doctor left me, more than ever bewildered as to ray true 
character and position. 1 heard afterward from the rector’s wife, 
who was not above caricaturing and observing the village oddities, 
that he went nome to the little house, which had been cast into great 
excitement half the day by finding this prize, completely dismayed 
by my indifference. ” 1 was almost glad to think 1 had lost it!” 
AVho could 1 be who thought so little of such a valuable ornament? 
the doctor and his household could not understand what it meant. 

As for me when 1 left him, my impulse was to tear it from my 
finger and fling it with all my force into the middle of the river. 
To what purpose? it would not be safe, 1 believed, even there; 
willful losing would not do, as 1 had experienced already. With 
secret passion 1 pressed it upon my finger, as it extra precautions 
to secure it might, perhaps, answer my purpose; what a fiendish, 
malignant glare it had to my excited eyes as 1 looked at it in the 
soft twilight! it seemed to gather the lingering light into itself, 
and turn upon me with a glow of defiance. When 1 reached home, 
where Alice had already lighted candles and put our little parlor in 
order, I held it up to her as I entered. 1 believe I was quite pals 
with fright and passion. ” See, it has come back to me,” 1 said, 
” it will not be tost.” 

Alice was not so much dismayed as 1 was. ” 1 feared it would 
be found,” she said; “ but patience, dear, there is but one heir to 
Cottiswoode, and it’s worn on a woman’s hand.” 

1 had to content myself, of course; but I scarcely liked to put up 
my hand, with that ring upon it, to my neck, where hung my 
mother’s miniature. Alice’s eye followed me, as 1 did it once, anti 
her face lightened up. ” If the ring is the sign of strife, the picture 
is peace itself. Miss Hester,” she said with a faltering voice. I almost 
thought so myself; how strange it was to wear these two things to- 
gether! 


THE FIFTH DAT. 

My baby was very ill. He had been seized a week before, but 
we had not apprehended anything. How we were closely shut up in 
my bedroom, trying to shield every breath of air from him, keeping 
up the fire though it was only September, while 1 sat by the fiieside 
holding him on my knee, watching the ohanges ot his face, his 
breatliing, his movements, with frightful anxiety, and reproaching 
myself oh, so bitterly! for that one last walk, which had brought 
this illness upon him. He had taken a violent cold, and 1 could not 


204 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


but see, by the anxiety of the cloetor, by the gravity of Alice, and 
the pitying tender look which she cast upon me, how they thought 
it tvould end. When I awoke from my security to think of this, 1 
dare not describe the misery that came upon me. J. had talked of 
misery and hopelessness before, but what w^ere all the griefs in the 
world to this one? To look at him and think he might be taken 
from me — to look upon those sweet features, which might be, by 
and by, removed from my eyes forever; oh, heaven, that agony! 
that was the bitterness of death. 

He had rallied two or tliree times and relapsed again, sc that we 
were even afraid to trust the appearance of recovery when such ap- 
peared — but there was no sign nf recovery now. It .was just dawn, 
very early in the morning, and we had been watching all night. I 
had made Alice lie down, and baby was in a disturbed and painful 
slumber. As 1 sat watching him, restraining my very breath lest it 
should make him uneasy as he lay upon my lap, my eye wandered 
to the cold gray sky, over which the morning light was flushing 
faintly — and it came to my mind how 1 had watched the dawn upon 
this day twelvemonth, my wedding-day. The sweet serenity of 
that morning came back to my recollection, the agitation of my 
own mind, which, great as it was, was happy agitation still — and 
my trust, my hope unbounded, my perfect confidence in Harry, my 
fearlessness of any evil— j^et, that was the beginning of sorrows; 
now the fear in my heart shook the very foundations of the earth; 
if such a calamity came, there was no light, no hope beyond it. 1 
had come to love life for my baby’s sake — even now I know 1 made 
a great painful effort to say I would be resigned and content with 
God’s will, whatever it was— but 1 felt in mj^ heart that life would 
be only a loathing and disgust to me; oh, heaven have pity upon me! 
what would 1 have in all the world if my baby was taken aw^ay? 

Every fleeting change that theie was — every momentary altera- 
tion— 1 wanted to have the doctor, or to call Alice to ask what she 
thought now. Then 1 remembered vaguely the name, the Great 
Physician — and that however far others might be. He was near at 
all times; oh, it 1 only could have got to His feet, as they did in 
Palestine in those blessed days when He was there! it I could but 
have thrown myself on the earth before Him, and cried, “my 
child! my child!” I said so in my prayer; from my very despair, 1 
caught boldness. 1 cried with my heart, till it fainted with that 
agony of asking. Praying tor your child’s life, do you know what 
it is? 

Theie was no difference, no difference; and the pallid light was 
growing on the sky, and the first sounds of life began to break upon 
the stillness: then 1 was stayed in ray prayers as by an invisible 
hand. 1 can not tell how or why these words came to my mind, 
but they came with a terrible force malting me silent, shutting my 
mouth in an instant: “ If 1 regard sin in my heart, the Lord will 
not hear me.” I was appalled by the sudden sentence; was there no 
hope, then? no hope? did 1 not even dare to appeal to Him who 
never before cast any supplicant away? 

I was struck dumb; 1 sat still in a breathless, hopeless pause of 
dismay, my heart suddenly yielding to this dreary calamity. In a 
moment there came upon me a fearful vision of whut might be; my 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


205 


life bereaved, luy hope lost— Heaven and the ear of God shut upon 
me. I knew what was rij^ht, and 1 had not done it— I was seif- 
convicted of wroni?, l)ut 1 did not change my course — 1 was crying 
wildly to God tor the blessing which He alone could grant, but 1 
was still regarding sin in my heart. 

At this moment Alice woke and hastily rose; she saw no chance 
in baby— he was just the same, just the same— oh, those dreadful, 
hopeless words! but 1 consented she should take him upon hei lap, 
and myself went down stairs— thouah not to rest, as sde said. 1 
went with a faint, desperate hope that, perhaps, if 1 were absent a 
few minutes I might perceive a favorable change when 1 returned. 

1 went into the cold deserted parlor, which already looked so un- 
inhabited, so miserable, and where baby’s unused cradle stood in 
the chill morning light, reminding me, it 1 had needed to be le- 
minded, of the sweet days that were past, and of the frightful 
shadow which was upon us now. I knelt down upon the floor be- 
side it. 1 did more than kneel; 1 bent down my very head upon 
the ground — I could not find a position low enough, humble 
enough. I tried to persuade myself that He was here indeed, that 
I was at His feet, where the woman which was a sinner came; but 
my cry was balked and my words stayed by that great unchange- 
able barrier; ah, the woman which was a sinner was not then re- 
garding sin in her heart. 

1 could not bear this intolerable oppression; my prayers and cries 
must have outlet one way or another. 1 raised up my head almost 
as if 1 were addressing some mortal enemy who had whispered these 
words into my mind. “1 will go home —1 will humble myself to 
my husband,” 1 cried aloud. ‘ 1 do not care for pride — 1 will hum- 
ble myself— I will humble myself!” While 1 was speaking my tears 
came in a flood, my troubled brain was lightened — and when 1 laid 
dowm my head again and covered my face with my hands, 1 felt at 
least that 1 could pray. 

1 am not sure that I could not have been five minutes absent alto- 
gether, but when 1 went back I was sick with the eager breathless 
hope which had risen In my mind. There was no ground for it; 
he was no better; but 1 took him in my lap again with patience, 
trying to put the dreadful shadow off from me. The dawn bright- 
ened into the full morning; then came the dreadful noon with all 
its brightness; the doctor came and went; the hours passed on— and 
the baby lived — that was all. 

And now 1 could not pray any longer; my mind had sunk into a 
feverish.stupidity; 1 was alive to nothing but the looks of my child; 
yes, and to one thing beside. 1 had a strange, helpless feeling of 
clinging to “ the Great Physician;” the name xvas in my mind, if 
nothing more; it was not prayer, it was not faith; 1 could not say it 
was anything mental or spiritual at all; 1 rather felt us if something 
held me, as if I were clinging to a cord or to the skirts of a robe; as 
if 1 was only thus prevented from plunging into some dreadful 
abyss of despair and ruin; and my dumb, strange, almost stupid 
dependence, was upon Him solely— only upon Him. 

1 was wailing, waiting; 1 did not dare to say to myself that baby 
lay more quietly; 1 dared not look up at Alice, or ask her what she 
thought; but the doctor came again when it was nearly evening. 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


206 

uud as I Watched his face my heart grew sick. Oh, yes, it was hope 
— hope! I scaicely could bear it; and when the old man said real 
words— real true words, not fancies — that he w'as a great deal better, 
1 think 1 had very nearly fainted. 

But it w’as quite true; he improved gradually all that afternoon; 
he began to look like himself again; rapidly as he had grown ill, he 
grew better; 1 suppose it always is so with young children; and 
when I sat by the fire at night with him, he put up his dear little 
hand again to catch at ray mother’s miniature, as he had done be- 
fore his illness. “Oh, my darling, give God thanks!” said Alice, 
as she sat on a stool by me, not able to control her tears. 1 had, 
indeed, an unspeakable thankfulness in my heart, but' 1 could not 
gi'^'e expression to it— wmrds would not come. “ Lips say God be 
pitiful, that ne’er said God be praised!” Is that true, i wonder? 1 
was very, very grateful, but 1 could not find words as 1 did in the 
agony of my prayers. 

And now I returned to the resolution 1 had come to when baby 
fell asleep. Oh, that sw’eet, hopeful sleep! to look at it was enough 
for me! 1 sat over the fire pondering on what 1 had to do. Then 
il occurred to me how unjust I had been. This dear, precious child, 
without whom my life would be a blank and hateful; this little 
creature, who had been to me a fountain of every sweet and tender 
influence; who had made my days joyful, burdened though they 
were— was my husband’s child, by as close and dear a tie as he was 
mine. 1 had no right to keep for myself, and for my own enjoy- 
ment, this sweetest gift of Providence, which was not bestowed on 
one of us more than another, but which was given to both. If he 
had wronged me, he had not wronged his child; and 1 bowed my 
h( ad in shame to think how 1 had broken even my rules of justice; 
but I could restore my husband to his rights. Without being con- 
scious that this was still another salve to my own pride, 1 took up 
eagerly this view of the matter; 1 would humble myself to say that 
1 was wrong — to return to Cottiswoode— to acknowledge how un- 
just 1 had been, and to share with my husband ihe care of our child; 
and then when my heart ached with thinking that right and wrong 
were not the only things to build household peace upon, imagina- 
tion came in to charm me with dreams of what he would do and 
say. How he would once more seek the heart which once was 
gip'en him so freely; how he would come to my feet again as he had 
done a year ago. Ah, this was our very marriage-day! 

1 wondered how he was spending it — where? — if he was all by 
himself at Cottiswoode— perhaps in that library, in the chair where 
1 had placed myself, leaning upon the desk, where 1 leaned ’the day 
1 came away — perhaps writing to me— surely thinking of me? yes, 

1 did not think he could let this day pass without wishing for me 
over again — and 1 wondered it 1 could get home before his appeal 
should reach me; for already 1 could imagine him writing a loving, 
anxious letter, full of the memories of to-day. 

What a strange difference! a pleasant excitement of plans and 
hopes was busy in the mind which only this morning had been lost 
in such despairing supplications. 1 think 1 had only risen the 
higher in the rebound from the depth of suffering to which 1 fell 
before. The idea of the journey, the return, the joyful surprise to 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


207 


my husband, tlie joy to myselt of perceiving his delight in little 
Harry, the satisfaction of Alice, and my own content in being once 
more at home, and carrying with me the heir of Cotliswoode, woke 
pleasure new and unaccustomed in my heart. 1 did not question 
myself about it, 1 did not pause to think ofhny humiliation, 1 per- 
mitted the tide of natural gladness to rise at its own sweet will; 1 
thought any degree of joy, and every degree, was possible, when i 
had thus regained, from the very shadow of death, my beautiful 
boy. 

“ 1 won’t have you sit up to-night, Miss Hester,” said Alice, who 
had returned to sit beside me, and gaze at him, but who did not dis- 
turb my thoughts; “ you must lie down, darling— he’ll have a good 
night, i’m sure; and I’ll sleep in the big chair, it’s very comforta- 
ble, now, dear, lie down, you’re wearied out.” 

” No, indeed, 1 am not even tired,” 1 said; “ I want nothing but 
to sit and look at him, Alice. Oh, is it not a delight to see him 
now?” 

“Ay, dear,” said Alice, slowly and sadly; “ay, Miss Hester, 
especially for them^ that have seen the like of him pass to heaven 
out of their own arms,” 

1 knew now what the griefs of Alice’s life must have been, 1, who 
had so often thought lightly of them in comparison with the 
troubles which 1 had brought upon myself. 1 knew better now. I 
took her hand into my own, and pressed it close, and kissed it — that 
dear, kind, careful hand! 

“ Don’t, darling, don’t,” cried Alice, in a voice choked with 
tears; “ Oh, Miss Hester, have you given thanks to God?” 

“ 1 am very thankful, very thankful, Alice,” said 1, humbly, and 
there was another pause. “ Alice, when do you think he would be 
able to travel?” 1 asked at last; “ perhaps a change might do him 
good— do you think so? how soon do .you think we could go?” 

“ Are we to go to another strange place, Miss Hester?’' said 
Alice, with a little dismay; “dear, 1 thinlc you should rather stay 
here; we’re known here now, and nobody takes particular note of 
us; Init to see a young lady like you with a baby, and all by your- 
self, makes people talk; and I wouldn’t go to a strange place, dar= 
3ing — it’s very pleasant here.” 

“ 1 did not think of going to a strange place, Alice,” said 1. 

“ 'J'hen you thought of Cambridge, Miss Hester,” continued Alice, 
rapidly; “ for my part. I’ve no heart to go back to Cambridge, I’d 
rather go anywhere than there; they’d say it was to vex Mr. South- 
cote you went — they say a deal of malicious things — and everybody 
knows us there; and it’s a dreary house for you to go back to, dear 
— you’d be sure to feel it so, even with baby. My darling, don’t go 
there; I’ve come to like this little place — we have it all to ourselves 
— and now it’s like home.” 

“ Then do you think there is no other home 1 have a right to, 
Alice?” I asked. 1 felt very much cast down and humbled be- 
cause she never seemed to think of that. Perhaps, indeed, I had no 
right to go back to the home 1 had left. 

“If you mean that— if 3"ou can think of that. Miss Hester 
cried Alice, in a tremulous voice. 

- “ Should 1 not think of it? will he not permit me to live there 


208 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


a^ain?” said 1, not without some pride, tliough with more sadness, 
“1 suppose you know my husband’s purposes better than! do; 
Alice, it is a sad state of matters; but 1 have been very wrong, and 
even though he should refuse to admit me, I must go; 1 have been 
very unjust to him; my baby belongs as much to him as to me. 1 
have deprived my husband of his rights, and now 1 must restore 
them to him.” 

” 1 do not understand you, Miss Hester,” said Alice, looking 
almost f lightened. 

‘‘ iiaby has a father as well as a mother, Alice,” 1 repeated; “ and 
1 am wronging my husband. I know he has seen little Harry, init 
he ought to be able to see him every day as I do. 1 have no right 
to keep m}’- darling all to m 3 '’self; he belongs to his father as much 
as to me — so 1 have made a vow to go home.” 

Only because it is right. Miss Hester?” asked Alice. 

” Do you think any thing cdse would conquer me,” 1 cried, keeping 
back my tears with an efiort. ‘‘ 1 could die by m 3 "self without 
murmuring. 1 don’t ask to be happy, as people call it; but 1 wdll 
not do him injustice — he has a right to his child.” 

After this petulant speech, which, indeed, excited and unsettled 
as ] was by the sudden idea that my husband might not desire to 
receive me, 1 could not restrain, 1 settlea m 3 ’^selt in m 3 ’’ chair, and 
half from pure willfulness, halt because my mind was so much oc- 
cupied that 1 had no inclination for rest, 1 matle Alice lie down, and 
continued in the chair m 3 ^self. Hushed the nestling close lo my 
breast, baby slept the sweet sleep of returning health and ease; and 
my thoughts w’ere free to speculate on my plans. Could it be pos- 
sible that bringing his sou, his heir with me— or, indeed, coming 
m 3 ’selt in any guise — I would be unwelcome at Cottiswoode? The 
thought was ovei wdielming. 1 was almost seized again with the 
same dreadful spasm of heartache and weakness which had at- 
tacked me on the day of baby’s birth. Was it possible? — was it 
complete alienation, and not mere separation? had I estranged his 
heart entirely’ from me? More than that, the fiend becan to whis- 
per: it was all deception — it was all a .generous impulse — he never 
did love me at all— he was only anxious lo restore to me my lost 
inheritance, to make up to me for all he had deprived me of. 

1 tried to fly from the evil suggestion; I put up my hand to feel 
for my mother’s miniature, as if it could help me. This hurried, 
anxious motion awoke baby. Oh, 1 was w’ell punished! He cried 
a great deal, and woke up thoroughly', and his crying brought on a 
coughing tit; it was nearly an hour before we had compoWl and 
lulled him to sleep again, for Alice had started up instantly on hear- 
ing his voice. All my terrors were roused by this, ihough it was 
rather a little infantine temper and fretfulness than anything else. 
1 fancied 1 had brought it all upon myself; I trembled witha^uper- 
stitious dread before the wise, and kind, and pitiful Providence 
which guided me, as if my own constant transgressions were being 
followed by a strict eye, and quick retribution. Oh, pity, pity! — 
what was justice to such as me? and what would become of me- 
who dared to judge others, if God dealt with myself only as 1 de- 
served? 

Then 1 made up my mind firmly and steadily once more— how- 


THE DxVYS OF MY LIFE. 


209 

ever I was received there to go to Cottiswoocle, and if my hiisbnufi 
did not object, to remain there, that neither of us might lose our 
child. One wild impulse of giving up my baby to him, and fleeijig- 
myself to the end of the earth, wuis too dieadful to be more than 
momentary. No, i would go to Oottiswoode; 1 would tell him that 
1 had wu-onged him— I would offer him all the justice it was in my 
power to give. It was now past midnight, and baby was once 
more fast asleep. Alice was sleeping— everything was perfectly 
still, except the faint craciding of the hre. Once oi twice 1 had 
already dropped asleep myself for a few moments, when there was- 
no urgent claim upon my attention, carrying my restless thoughts 
into dreams as restless. Now 1 suppose 1 must have fallen into the 
deep slumber of exhaustion, holding my baby fast in my arms, for 
1 remember no more of that day. 

And that was how 1 spent the first anniversary of my bridal day. 


THE SIXTH DAY. 

It was nowlat^ in September, a true autumnal day, just such a 
day as one of those which had carried us joyfully over "foreign rivers 
and highways a year ago— when Alice and ! made our final piepara- 
tions and set out on our journey home. The owner of the house — 
the willow lady— had returned on the previous evening, and she 
w\as very well satisfied with the rent 1 paid her in place of the 
“notice” to which she was entitled. Baby was perfectly well— i 
think even stronger and more beautiful than ever— ancPthouffh 1 
trembled with nervous excitement, anticipating this new step 1 was 
about to take, 1 was tolerably composed, considering everything 
that was involved. It was very early — 1 think not much after six 
o’clock — when Ave sat down at our homely breakfast- table— 1 with 
baby on my lap, fully equipped and well wrapped up for his jour- 
ney, and Alice with an odd variety of little parcels about her, and 
far too much agitated to eat anything now, though she had care- 
fully provided herself wuth a basket of “refreshments” to per- 
secute me withal upon the way. The sunshine slanted with its 
golden gleam upon the river and the halt-awakened houses on the 
wmter’s edge. There were no ships in sight, but only a vacant 
pleasure-boat, flapping its loose sail idly on the morning wind, and 
rocking on the rising water as the morning tide came in upon the 
beach. The air was slightly chill, and fresh as it only is at that 
hour, and the sun, slanting down upon house after house, shining 
upon curtained windows and closed doors, seemed calling almost 
with a playful mockery upon the sleepers. Our little bustle and 
commotion, the excitement in our pale faces, and the eventful jour- 
ne}' before us, though they were not unsuitable for the opening of 
a common laborious dajL bore yet a strange contrast to this charmed 
hour, which was almost as sweet and full of peace as the evening. 
1 stood by the window for a moment, looking out wistfully on the 
landscape which had grown so familiar to my eyes — how sweet it 
was!' how the water rose and glistened, dilating with the full tide! 
I suppose we have all picture-galleries of our own, almost surpass- 


210 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


ing, with their ideal truth, the accomplished works of ait; and 1 
know that there is no more vivid scene in mine tuan that morning 
landscape on the Thames. 

We had but one trunk when we came, but baby's overflowing 
wardrobe, and that pretty cradle ot his, which it had cost us so 
much trouble to pack, a*^dded considerably to our incumbrances; 
but 1 was glad to think Alice was not quite so helpless now as 
when 1 hurried her, stunned and frightened, away from the peace- 
ful home w'hich she had never left before. It was so strange to go 
■over these rooms, and think it was for the last time; these little 
liunible rooms, where so much had happened to us— where baby 
had been bom! 

Stranger still it was to find ourselves traveling, rushing away 
from our quiet habitation and our banished life. I'hen, Loudon; 
Alice was upon terms of moderate acquaintanceship wiih London 
DOW — she had been here all by herself to provide baby’s pretty 
dresses— so that this was now her third time of visiting it. I was 
very anxious to lose no time, for there was a long drive between 
the railw^ay and Cottiswoode, and I wished to arrive before night, 
in spite ot’myselt, new and pleasant emotions fluttered within me; 
uncertain as 1 was how my husband would receive me — painful as 
it was on many accounts to ask him to admit me once more to m3' 
proper place — 1 still could not help contriving, with a mother’s 
anxious vanity, and with a deeper feeling too, that baby should 
look w^ell, and not be fretful or tired when his father for tlie first 
time saw him in my arms; so we scarcely waited at all in Lfmdon. 
31 y heart began to beat more wildly wdien we were once more 
seated in the railway carriage, and proceeding on our way to Cam- 
hridge; tor a little while I w'as speechless with the tumult ot agita- 
tion into w'hich 1 fell. Was it real, possible? unasked and uncalled 
fur, was 1 going home. 

We had arranged to stop at a little town w’here W'e were quite un- 
known, and wdiere we were sure to be able to get a chaise to Cottis- 
woode 1 do noi think half a dozen words passed between us wdiile 
%ve dashed along through this peacetul qountr}' at express speed; 
baby slept nearly all the wa}' — the motion overpow'ered him, and 1 
was very thankful that he made so little claim upon my attention; 
when he did wake Tve were nearly at the station, and Alice took 
him and held him up at the wdudow. When he was out of my 
arms 1 bow'ed dowm my head into my hands, and cried, and tried to 
pray; how my heart w'as beating! 1 scarcely saw anything abuut 
me, and the din ot opening and shutting the carriage-doors, the 
portei shrieking the name ot the. station, and the bustle of alighting, 
came to me like sounds in a dream. 1 stirred myself mechanically 
and gathered up our parcels, w'hile Alice carefully descended from 
the carriage bearing baby in her arms. Alice, w^ith careful fore- 
thought, considered my dignity in the matter, and for myself 1 was 
not displeased at this moment to be relieved from the charge of my 
child. 

How pretty he looked., holding up his sw'eet little face, looking 
round him with those bright eyes of his! even in my preoccupa- 
tion I heard passing countrywomen point him out to each other; 
Diy heart swelleil when 1 thought of taking him home, and plac- 


THE DATS OF HY LIFE. 211 

ing him in his father’s arms. Alas, alas! that father, how would 
he looh at me? 

We had come to a very small town, scarcely more than a village, 
save for one good inn in it; it had once been on the high-road la 
Loudon, but the railway had made sad failure of its pretensions. 
Here, however, we did not find it difficult to get a postchaiso, and 
1 made Alice take some refreshments while we waited for it; 1 
could not take anything myself ; 1 could not rest nor sit still; I took 
baby in my arms, and paced about the lone:, large deserted room we 
were waiting in. Alice did not say anything, but as soon as she 
could, she got little Harry from me again. 1 was very impatient; 
1 could not understand why they took so long to get ready— and it 
was now nearly two o’clock— but they told me they could drive in 
two hours to Cottiswoode. 

At last we set off. 1 gave up baby entirely to Alice; 1 sat with 
my hand upon the open window looking intently out; 1 do not 
think I changed my position once during that entire two hours. 
]My eyes devoured the way as w'e drove oii— n>y sole impulse all the 
time was to watch how fast we went, to see how we drew nearer 
step by step, and mile by mile. My own country! I leaned out 
my head once and drew in a long breath of that wide, free air, 
coining full and fresh upon us from the far horizon. It seemed to 
be 3 "ears instead of months since 1 had last been here. 

\Vhen we besran to draw very near — when once more we passed 
Cottisbourne and the Rectory, and made a circuit to reach the en- 
trance of the avenue, my heart beat so fast that I could scarcely 
breathe; 1 held out my arms silently to Alice, and slie placed baby 
within them; 1 held him very close to me tor an instant, and bent 
over him to gain courage; oh, my beautiful, innocent, fearless baby! 
nothing knew he of wrong, or punishment, of a guilty conscience, 
or a doubtful welcome. He lay looking up in my face smiling, as 
if to give me courage; but his smile did not give me courage. What 
1 needed now was to compose and collect myself; or, instead of tell- 
ing m}’’ husband that 1 came to do him jUvStice, 1 would make a 
mere appeal to his pity with my weakness and my tears— and that 
was what, even now, 1 could nol do. 

Down that noble avenue under the elm-trees— and now we drew 
up at the door of Cottiswoode. I trembled exceedingly as I de- 
scended the steps, though 1 maintained an outward appearance of 
firmness. Mr. Southcote was not at home, the man said, gazing at 
me in astonishment; 1 was struck with utter dismay by this; 1 had 
never calculated on such a chance. 1 turned round to Alice with 
stunned and stupid perplexity to ask what we were to do. 

Rut there was a rush from the hall, and the housekeeper, and 
Amy, and another woman-servant came forward, the younger ones 
liauging on the skirts of Mrs. Templeton: “ Master will be home 
immediately, ma’am,” cried the housekeeper, ‘‘it’s a new boy, he 
don’t know who he’s a-speaking to. Please to let me take the 
dear baby; oh, what a darling it is; and such rejoicings as we had 
when we heard of its being a son and heir. Master’s but gone to 
the Rectory. I’ll send off the chaise. Dear heart, Alice, show the 
way! my lady likes none so well as you.” 

1 went in faintly. 1 would not give up my boy to any one of 


212 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


Iheni 1 had nota word or a look for the kind, eager women who 
followed me with anxious eyes; I would not even go into the draw- 
inji-room, but turned hastily to the library. When I sat down at 
last in his chair, 1 felt as if a few moments more would have over- 
powered me. 1 was here at home, under the kindly roof where 1 
had been born, holding the heir of Cottiswoode in my arms, wait- 
ing for my husband; but my heart was dumb and faint with dis- 
may, and 1 scarcely knew what 1 expected as 1 sat motionless be- 
fore his table, looking at the: materials and the scene of his daily 
occupations. 1 could not see a thing there which suggested a single 
thought of me. No — the desk on wdiich 1 had laid my note was 
removed, modern books and papers lay on the table. 1 could almost 
fancy he had studiously removed everything which could lemind 
him that 1 once w'as here. 

My heart sunk, my courage gradually ebbed away from me; but 
baby began to stir and murmur — he was not content to sit so quiet- 
ly; and 1 was obliged to rise and walk about with him, though my 
limbs trembled under me. Then indeed— could it be in recollection 
of me? 1 saw a little table placed as mine used to be in the little 
windowed recess where I had spent so much of my time when 1 
was a girl — and on it a little vase with roses, those sweet pale roses 
from my favorite tree. I remembered in a moment how this room 
bad looked on the autumn night when Edgar ttouthcote first came 
to Cottiswoode. Could this be a remembrance of that time, and of 
me? 

I can not tell how long I walked about with baby, acquiring some 
degree of composure amid my agitation, as my trial was delayed — 
tliough 1 was faint, exhausted, and weary in frame more than 1 
could have fancied possible. 1 heard the chaise rumble beavil}'- 
away, and the noise of carrying our luggage upstairs — 1 thought 1 
could detect a whispering sound in the next room, as if Alice was 
being questioned; and in the large lofty house, with its wide stair- 
cases and passages, eo diJEEerent from the little refuge we had been 
lately accustomed to, the opening and closing of distant doors, and 
steps coming and going, echoed upon my heart. Once Alice entered 
to beg that she might have baby, while behind came the house- 
keeper, entreating, with tears in her eyes, that 1 would take some- 
thing. It cost me a great effort to ask them to leave me, for my lips 
were parched and dry, and I scarcely could speak; and they had 
given me a great shock, little as they intended it, for 1 thought it 
was my husband when 1 heard some one at the door. 

8d thus I continued walking about the room, doing what 1 could 
to amuse baby. 1 had neither removed my bonnet nor relieved him 
of his out-of-doors dress, but it almost seemed as though my sweet 
little darling- knew that to cry would aggravate my distress— how 
good he was! springing and crowing in my arms, in spite of bis 
encumbering dress. 

At last I'saw a shadow cross the window — my heart fluttered, 
bounded, was still, as 1 thought, for a moment — and then my bus- 
band was in the room. 

I could not speak at first, my lips were so dry. I came to a sud- 
den standstill in the middle of the room, gazing* blankly at him, and 
bolding up the child. I saw nothing but astonishment in his face 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 2l3 

at my first glance; he came rapidly toward me, crying “Hester! 
Hester!” but that was all — he never bade me welcome home. 

“1 have been very wrong,” L said, at last; “1 have done you 
great injustice. I have prided myself on doing right, and yet 1 have 
been wrong in everything. 1 have come bacl^ to you to humble 
myself; he belongs to you as much as to me— he is your son, and 1 
have been unjust and cruel in keeping himaway from you; will you 
let me stay here, that we may both have our boy?” 

When 1 began to speak of wrong and of injustice, he turned 
away with an impatient gesture and exclamation— but, by this 
time, had returned and was standing by me, listening, with his 
head bent, his eyes cast down, and a smile of some bitterness upon 
his mouth. When 1 stopped, he looked up at me— strange! he 
looked at me — not at my baby— not at his child! 

“You have come to do me justice?” he said. 

What did he mean? the tone was new to me, I did not compre- 
hend it. 1 said, “Yes,” humbly. 1 was overpowered with ex- 
haustion, and could scarcely stand, but 1 suppose he thought me 
quite composed. 

“ This house is yours, Hester,” he said with some emphasis; “ it 
is unjust, since that is to be the word, to ask me such a question. 
You have come to do me justice, to restore to me some of my rights 
— I thank you, Hester; though 1 warned you once that 1 should not 
be satisfied with justice,” he continued hurriedly, once more turn- 
ing away from me, and making a few rapid strides through the 
room. 

1 should have been so relieved if 1. durst have cried! 1 was so 
worn out — so much weakened by fatigue and excitement; but 1 
only stood still in my passive mechanical way, able to do no more 
than to hold baby fast, lest he should leap out of my arms. 

In a minute after he came back again and stood by me, but not 
looking at me, leaning his hand on the table, as if he were prepar- 
ing to say something; for myself, I was exhausted beyond the power 
of making speeches, or reasoning, or explaining, or carrying on any 
sort of warfare; 1 was reduced to the barest simplicity; 1 put out 
my band and touched his arm; “Will you not take him,” 1 said, 
holding out my baby; “ Edgar, he is your son.” 

He glanced at me a moment with the strangest mingling of emo- 
tions in his face. After that glance 1 no longer thought him cold 
and calm; then he suddenly snatched baby from me. and kissed and 
caressed him till 1 feared he would frighten the child; but he was 
not frightened, though he was only an infant, my bold, beautiful 
boy! For myself, 1 sunk into the nearest chair, and let my tired 
arms fall by my side. I almost felt as if 1 had not strength enough 
to rise again, and a dull disappointment was in my heart; was it 
only to be justice after all? Oh, if he would but come back to me! 
if he would but forget his dignity, and my right and wrong, and 
make one more appeal to my true self, to my heart, which yearned 
for something more than justice! But he did not; oh, and 1 knew 
in my heart he was very right: it was 1 who ought to be thoroughly 
humbled, it w^as 1 who ought to appeal to him; but 1 was difierent 
in my notions now— instinctively 1 looked for pity— pity, noth- 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


214 

ing better! and almost licpecl that he would remember 1 was weak 
and fatigued, a woman, and the mother of his child. 

By and by he returned, carrying bab}" fondly in his arms — his 
face flushed with undoubted delight and joy. As he drew near ta 
me he became graver, and asked me suddenly, “ Why did you call 
me Edgar, Hester?” 

” Because it is 5mur proper name,” 1 said. 

1 felt that he looked at me anxiously to discover my meaning,, 
but 1 had not energy enough to raise my head to give him a 
clearer insight into it. Then 1 fancied he gradually caine to some 
understandina of what 1 meant. 1 never had addressed him by any 
name since our first coming home. 1 would not. 1 could not call 
him Harry— and 1 had so little desire to make peace or to establish 
any convenient or natural intercourse, that 1 never tried to adopt the 
name by which 1 had always designated my cousin. Now, matters 
were different; 1 wanted to begin upon anew foundation; 1 wanted 
to put all the past, its dreams of happiness and its nightmare of 
misery, alike out of my mind — and this was why 1 called him 
Edgar, not unkindly, rather with a sad effort at friendship. 1 think 
he partly undei stood me before he spoke again. 

” Yes, it is my proper name — but so was the other; and the child? 
you have called your boy?” 

” Harry, ”I said in a faltering tone. 

He must have known it, but his eye flashed brightly from baby 
to me, once more with a gleam of delight. Hester,” he said, 
bending over me as he placed my child in my arms again; ‘‘ when 
you call me once more by that name, 1 will know that 1 have re- 
gained my bride.” 

1 bowed my head, partly in assent, partly to conceal the tears 
whicb stole out from under my eyelids even when I closed them. 1 
inclosed my child in my arms, but 1 sat still. 1 had scarcely power 
or heart enough to raise myself from that chair. 

” Are you ill, Hester?” he asked 

” No, only very tired,” 1 said faintly. His lip quivered. 1 do 
not know how^ it was that the simplest common words seemed to 
move liim so. He ran to the door of the room and called Alice, 
who was not far distant, to take baby, and then he offered me his 
arm very gently and kindly, and led'me upstairs. 

Mrs. Templeton, the housekeeper, stood without, waiting. 

” Mir. Southcote has not taken a thing since she came, sir,” she 
said in an aggrieved tone; ” please to tell her, sir, it’s very wrong 
— it’s not fit for a young lady— and nursing the darling baby her- 
self, too.” 

” Mrs. Southcote is fatigued,” said my husband, kindly, shelter- 
ing me from this good woman’s importunities. “ Will you have 
something sent upstairs, or shall you be able to come dow~n to din- 
ner, Hester? Nay, not for me,” lie added, lowering his voice, ” I 
shall be sufficiently happy to know you are at home; and you are 
sadly worn out, 1 see. Little Hany has been too much for you, 
Hester.” 

” Oh, no, 1 have him alw^ays,” 1 said quickly. Alice was carry- 
ing him upstairs before us, and he laughed and crowed to rne 
from her arms. When 1 tried to make some answer to his baby 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


215 


signals, 1 saw his father look at me with strange tenderness. His 
father, yes; and 1 was leaning as I liad not leaned since the first 
month of our marriage upon my husband’s arm. 

Every face 1 saw was full of suppressed jubilee; they were al- 
most afraid to show their joy openly, knowing that 1 — and, indeed, 
1 supect both of us — were too proud to accept of public sympathy 
either in our variance or our reconciliation, if reconciliation it was. 
^rhe face of Alice was the most wondering, and the least joyous of 
all- she could not quite understand what this returri was, or what 
it portended; she did not accept it as her uninstructed neighbors 
did, merely as a runaway wife coming home, asking pardon and 
having forgiveness; and though her eyes shone with sudden bright- 
ness when she saw my husband supporting me, arid some appear- 
ance of conversation between ub, she was still perplexed and far 
from satisfied. JViy husband left me when we reached my room, 
and 1 gladly loosed oft my bonnet and mantle, and laid myself 
down upon the sofa. It was evening again, and the suiishiue was 
coming full in at the west window; the jasmine boughs were 
hanging half across it with their white stars, and the rich foliage 
beyond, just touched with the first tints of autumn, rose into the 
beautiful sky above. My own familiar room, where Alice’s pretty 
muslin draperies had been, and w^here a year ago, my husband had 
decked a bower for his unthankful bride— 1 saw all its graceful 
appointments now in strange contrast with the small white dimity 
bedroom in which 1 awoke this morning. How pleasant, 1 thoufifht, 
that little house when first we went to it! What an agreeable relief 
from the etiquettes and services of this statelier dwelling-place! 1 
had become accustomed to the ways and manners of our homely 
life by this time, and the charm of novelty was gone from them— 1 
found a greater charm on this particular evening, in looking about, 
while 1 lay overpowered with the languor of weariness on my sofa, 
upon the costly and graceful articles round me in “ my lady’s cham- 
ber.” The second change was quite as pleasant as the first. 

“So this is Oottiswoode, Alice,” 1 said, in a halt reverie,” and 
we are at home.” 

“ Oh, never to leave it again. Miss Hester — never to leave it till 
God calls,” cried Alice, anxiously. “ 1 don’t ask for a word, not 
a word, more than you’re ready to give; but, tell me, you’ve 
made up your mind to that, dear, and I’m content?” 

“ 1 shall never go away of my own will — no, happy or unhappy, 
it is right 1 should be here,” 1 said. “Does that satisfy you, 
Alice?” 

“ Miss Hester, I’d rather hear less of right, and more of kindly 
wish aud will,” said Alice, with most unlooked-for petulance. “ You 
oughtn’t to be unhappy— God has never sent it — and it’s time 
enough when He sends to seek grief.” 

1 looked at her with a little astonishment, but took no notice of 
her momentary impatience— 1 had given her cause enough, one 
time and another; and now Amy came in with a tray, and some- 
thing that Mrs. Templeton was sure 1 would like, and another maid 
came with her to light a fire for the comfort of Master Harry. 
When the fire began to blaze, Alice undressed him, while I partook 
— and 1 was almost ashamed to feel, with some appetite — of the 


216 


THE HAYS OE HA LIFE. 


housekeeper’s good things. Then 1 had a low eas 3 '-cliair drawn 
to the c.hinme\’' corner, and a footstool, and took iiiy baby buck 
again— 1 think' he looked even prettier in his night-gown and close 
cap. The dormant ambition to have him admired spiung up very 
strongly within me; and 1 think, but that poor little Harry was 
very hungry and sleepy, I should have summoned courage to send 
him down-stairs, as Alice suggested, “ to bid his papa good-night.’’ 

“ M^nat did they all say of him, Alice?” 1 asked. 

” What could they say, dear?” said the impartial and candid 
Alice, appealing to my honor; ‘‘Mrs. Templeton, thought he was 
the sweetest little angel that ever was born; and as for the maids! 
— it’s like bringing light into a house to bring a baby, Miss Hester. 
Blessings on his dear, sweet face! and he’s the heir of Cottis- 
woode.” 

” Did any one say who he was like?” I asked, timidly. This 
was a question 1 had never attempted to settle even in my own mind; 
though, like ever}’’ other mother, 1 saw miud, and intelligence, and 
expression in the sweet little features, 1 never could make out any 
resemblance — 1 could not persuade myself that he was like his lather. 

‘‘Well, he’s very like the Southcotes, dear,” said Alice, pro- 
nouncing an unhesitating yet ambiguous judgment; ‘‘ there’s a deal 
about his little mouth and his eyes; and. Miss Hester, dear, what 
did his papa Ihink of him?” 

”1 think he was very glad, Alice,” 1 said, with a sigh. Why 
were we so far from what we should be? — why, why, could we not 
discuss the beauty of our child as other young fathers and mothers 
did? 1 had only seen the joy in Edgar’s face— he had not said a 
word to me on this subject, though it was the only subject in which 
there could be no pain. 

After baby was laid to sleep in the cradle, 1 sat still by the fire- 
side, musing by myself, while Alice went down-stairs. 1 was left 
alone for a long time quite without interruption, but 1 did not mahe 
use of the interval as 1 might have done, to form my plans lor our 
new life. 1 could not project anything; a fit of ease an»l idleness 
had come upon me — wandering, disconnected fancies rather than 
thoughts were in my mind; the exhaustion of the day had worn 
me out, and 1 was resting, reposing almost, more completely than 
if 1 had been asleep. 

1 almost thought that he would have corre upstairs to see me once 
more and look at baby’s sleep, i thought he ought to have come, 
for 1 was a stranger here — and my heart beat when 1 heard the step 
of Alice coming along the great roomy corridor— but it was only 
Alice; and when she had set candles upon the table, she came to 
me with (he look of a petitioner—” Dear heart, the squire’s all by 
himself; won’t you go dowm and sit an hour, Miss Hester?- maybe 
he thinks he must not come here.” 

1 rose when Alice spoke to me, without once thinking of disobey- 
ing her. 1 was glad to be told to do it, though 1 st-arcely should 
have moved of my own will. 1 was still in the very plain dress in 
which 1 had traveled, which was, indeed, the only kind of dress 
that I had worn since leaving Cottiswoode — with my 'mother’s minia- 
ture at my neck, and that hereditary ring upon my hand. 1 paused 
nervously before the mirror a moment to see il my hair was in 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


217 


order. 1 looked pale, and somewhat worn-out — and 1 wondered 
what he would think of my wearied, thoughttul face, so unlike 
what it used lo be. Alice would fain have had me change my dress 
which, indeed, was not very suitable for Cottiswoode — but 1 could 
not do that to-night. 

When 1 went inio the drawing-room, he was sitting moodily by 
himself, bending do^^ n with his arms upon the table, and his head 
resting upon them. He started when he heard me, lifted a thought- 
ful, clouded face, which made me think he had been fighting some 
battle with himself, and rose huriiedlf to place a chair tor me. We 
sat opposite to each other for a little time in awkward silence; a 
hundred things rushed to my lips, but 1 had not courage to say 
them, and 1 waited vainly till he should address me. At last I 
made a faint attempt at conversation: “ What did you tl iuK of 
baby?” 1 asked, scarcel}’^ above my breath. 

‘‘ Think of him — think of him! opinion is out of the question,” 
he cried in great haste and eagerness, as if 1 had broken a charm of 
silence, and set him free; ” lie is your baby and mine. Hester, tliere 
is nothing more to be said. Let us understand each other,” he con- 
tinued hurriedly, drawing his chair close to the table with nervous 
agitation; ‘‘ are we to endeavor to do our duty by each other— to live 
under the same roof, to fulfill our relative duties as justice and right 
demand? Is this the foundation we are to build upon, and is this 
all? tell me, Hester, let me know what it is.” 

” It is — yes, 1 suppose so,” 1 answered faltering with confusion 
and almost fear; for he w’as more excited now than 1 had ever seen 
him. 1 could not li^ve given any answer but assent— 1 could not, 
though my heart had broken for it. 

For a long time after that nothing was said between us. I saw 
that he struggled and struggled vainly to subdue himself, and 1, a 
strange new task to me, tried to do what 1 could to soothe him. 1 
spoke of baby, of his illness, of our journey; I seemed lo mvself 
another person, and almost telt as if 1 were playing a part, making 
this desperate attempt to get up a quiet conversation wiih iny hus- 
band, while a whole ocean of unsettled principles lay still betweetr 
us; indifferent conversation! for 1 even tried to direct him lo the 
books uDon the table — but 1 saw very well how little I made by my 
efforts, and how impossible it was that he could fully control and 
master himself till I went away. 

When I had stayed long enough— it was hard to remain, it was 
hard to go away, 1 did not know which to choose— 1 went forward 
and held out iny hand to him, to say good-night. He took it and 
detained it, and looked up at me with again that doubtful impulse 
on his face; would he speak? No. He grasped my hand closely 
again, and let it fall. 

”1 am poor company to-night, Hester, very poor company,” he 
said, turning hastily away; “but 1 thank you for your generous 
efforts— 1 shall be able to respond to them better to-morrow.” 

And though he rose and opened the door, and attended me wdth 
the delicate respectfulness of old, that was all the good- night I re- 
ceived from him. It cost me some tears when 1 reached to the shelter 
of my own room; yet my heart was strangely at ease, and would 


218 


THE DAYS OF 'SLY LIFE. 


not be dismayed— and when I took my baby to my breast and went 
to sleep, 1 gave God thanks that we had come home. 


THE SEVENTH DAY. 

It was now October, and the weather was still verj' bright and 
pleasant. 1 had become quite settled and established once more at 
Cottiswoode— had that — for though my life was still sadly meager 
and deficient in one point, it still was life, and that was something. 
1 might no longer wander everywhere with my baby in my arms, 
but 1 had elect ed the sweet-tempered and kind-hearted Amy to be 
his maid, and he was growing a great boy now, and soon fatigued 
me! though in onr own rooms 1 kept possession of him still. But 
1 had begun with better understanding and more discreetness to 
help the poor people at Cottisbourne. 1 had ceased to spend my 
days in a dream. 1 was active, and full of occupation. The night- 
mare had passed oft from me, though some of its influences"^ re- 
mained. 

For in the most vital point of all we made little progress; my 
husband and 1 were no nearer each other, had come to no better un- 
derstanding. i studied his comfort now with the the eagerest atten- 
tion. 1 grew punctilious, formal, in my excess of care for him. 1 
saw that he was served with devotion and humility as a prince 
might have been. 1 could not forgive any piece of neglect or for- 
getfulness in the household which touched u^J^n his comfort. I al- 
most think he knew how anxious 1 was, and attributed it — alas, 
were we ne^er to know each other! to my extreme desire to “do 
my d,uty,“ to do him Justice. He was, and yet he was not, right 
in judging me so. 1 was shut out from all the ordinary modes of 
showing my regard — we were on cert moniDus terms with each other 
— and 1 wanted to prove to him that whatever barriers Iheie might 
be between us, there was always aftection; what do 1 say? 1 did not 
want to prove anything— 1 only did all 1 could, eagerly, timidly, 
and with anxious devotion — everything that I could for him. And 
he received them as my father might have received my mother’s re- 
gard to his comfort, as kindnesses, things to thank me for, exertions 
of duty lor wdiicli he was obliged to me. Oh, how" his thanks galled 
me! It sometimes was very hard ado to keep my composure, to 
hide how my heart and my feelings were wounded, or to keep the 
old bitterness from rushing back. In these days 1 behaved better 
than he did; we had changed positional; it was he who was restless, 
and self-reproachfnl now; it was be who thought of being right, 
and adhering to his resolution. He had promised not to molest 7ne, 
to ac ept what 1 yielded to him, to leave it all in my own hands— 
and he w'as keeping his wmid. 

Immediately after our arrival at Cottiswoode 1 had written a very 
brief note to Flora telling her 1 was here, and begging her to come, 
if mamma would permit. I was very anxious for the verdict of 
Mrs. Ennerdale 1 did not know^ how 1 should be received by the 
country ladies, wdio doubtless had already sat in judgment on me — 
whether they had pronounced me WMthout the pale, or if my return had 


THE DAYS OF MY. LIFE. 


219 


Covered the sin of my flight. It was nearly a week, and 1 had re- 
ceived no answer trom Flora. 1 was somewhat nervous at out it. 
1 did not feel that it would be at all agieeuble to be excommunicated 
by the little society which formed the world at Cottiswoode, and 
everything made me see more plainly how ill-advised and foolish 1 
was to go away Even Miss Saville patronized me grimly with a 
tacit disapprobation. It was not so much because 1 had done 
wrong, a.s because 1 had exposed my own afl-airs, and thrown off 
the privacy which belongs ahke to family feuds and family happi- 
ness. 1 tried to persuade myself that 1 never had cared tor society, 
and that was very true! but rejecting society is a mucli easier thing 
than being rejected by it— and 1 did not like the latter alternative. 

This morning, 1 was sitting by myself in the drawing- room. My 
husband spent a great deal of time out of doors, and was seldom 
with me except at table, and for a shoit time in the evening. Baby 
W'as out wdth Amy, his maid. The external circumstances did not 
differ much from those in wdiich Flora Ennerdale found me last 
wduter, on her first visit to Cottiswoode; but there was, in reality, a 
great change. 1 no longer sat in listless indolence, neither doing, 
nor caring to do anything. I was working busily at some little 
frocks tor baby. The flow^ers upon my table v^ere no longer with- 
out interest to me. 1 was not ignorant now of the management of 
the Cottiswoode School, and the w’^ants of the old women at Cottis- 
bourne. 1 had begun to use all the natural and innocent means of 
occupation that lay around me— and it 1 was not yet quite a lady 
bountiful, 1 bad already made my peace wdtb the clamorous vil- 
lagers, w^ho did not quite smile upon me at my first return. 

1 was singing softly to myself as 1 sat at work — not because my 
heart was light — but Alice was not near me to talk to, and, truth to 
tell, I no longer wished tor too much commerce with my own 
thoughts. The sound was a great deal more cheerful thau the mean- 
ing was; but w'hen I was thus occupied, 1 heard the sound ot some 
arrival, and immediately not Flora only, but Mrs. Ennerdale, were 
ushered into the room. 

i was so much surprised that it made me nervous —especially as 1 
was at once infolded in the wide, warm, odorous embrace of Mrs. 
Ennerdale; here at least there was no lack of cordiality. 1 breathed 
more freely when 1 emerged from under she shadow of her great 
shawl and ample draperies; and Flora ^vas so bright, so happy in 
what she supposed to be my happiness, that my heart melted under 
the sunny gleam of kindred and kindness. 1 was grateful to Mrs. 
Ennerdale for acknowledging my presence in her own person. ] 
was glad to be relieved thug from one phase of anxiety; at least, 
thus far, 1 was not tabooed. 

“ And how well you are looking!” cried Mrs. Ennerdale; “ Flora 
told me you were quite pale and thin when she saw you. Ah, there’s 
nothing like native air, my dear — you’ve got quite a bloom— you 
look belter than ever 1 saw you look, though that is quite natural. 
'Where is baby? not asleep nor out ot-doors, I hope. Do you know 
you ought not to let me see him, for 1 shall begin to envy you im- 
mediately — 1 envy every woman 1 see with a baby in her arms. Ah, 
my dear, it’s the very happiest time of your life.” 

1 could very well understand how it should be so, arid though 1 


220 THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

could not help sighing, 1 liked Mrs. Ennerdale the better for what 
she said. 

“May 1 run and look for him. Cousin Hester?” cried Flora 
eagerly, “ 1 have been telling mamma what a sweet baby he is, and 
1 do so want to see him again; oh, 1 see Alice in the garden: there 
he is! Let me run and bring him in myself to show mamma.” 

“ My dear, 1 wish you would tell Flora .that she ought to be a li(- 
tle more sober now,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, appealing to me with 
motherlj" consequence, and a look half of sport, half of anxiety; 
“ she will mind you when she will not mind me, and she ought to 
be sober, and think of what’s before her now; do you not think so, 
Mrs. fc'outhcote?” 

“ Oh, mamma!” cried Flora, springing out from the window; we 
both looked after her light, bounding figure as she ran across the 
lawn toward Alice. “ 1 know she told you all about it,” said the 
good-humored Mrs. Ennerdale; “ don’t you think she is too young 
to be married? to fancy that such a child wmuld even think of it; 
but indeed 1 have taken great pains with Flora, and she is the eld- 
est of the family, and know^s a great deal about housekeeping, and 
1 really believe will make a very good little wife; though marriage 
is a sad lottery, my dear,” said the good lady sympatheticully, shak- 
ing her head and looking into my face. 

1 turned away m}" head, and felt my cheeks bu’rn; at first I was 
almost disposed to resent this hotly as an insult — but nothing would 
be further from the thoughts of the speaker than auy unkindness to 
me. It w^as the first indication 1 had of what “ sympathy ’* was in 
such a case as mine, and it stung me bitterly. 

“ My dear,” continued Mrs. Ennerdale, drawing close to me, lay- 
ing her hand upon my shoulder, and lowering her tone, “ 1 am glad 
that Flora is gone, just that 1 may say a word to yoil; 1 was grieved, 
ot course— all your friends must have been — though 1 don’t doubt 
you thought you had good reason; but, dear, it’s far best to make 
up your mind to everything, and do your duty where Providence 
has placed you. We are relations, yon know, in a way, and you’ve 
no mother to advise you; if you ever should have such a plan again, 
my dear, will you come and speak to me about it? I’m no great wise 
woman, but 1 know what life is; will you ask my opinion, dear?” 

“ But 1 never can, nor will, have such a plan again,” i answered 
rapidly. 

“ That’s all the better, my love, all the better,” said Mrs. Enner- 
dale, “ but if you should I’ll rely upon your coming to me. Hush, 
here’s Flora; and is that baby? Now are you not proud of him? 
Whal a great boy! What a true Soutlicote! 1 can’t tell whether 
he’s like his papa or you; but 1 can see he’s e:ot the family face.” 

Mrs. Ennerdale bustled out from the window to meet the advanc- 
ing conple—Flora and little Harry— who, I think, without any van- 
ity, would indeed have made as pretty a picture as could be imag- 
ined. 1 lingered behind a little to get over the pain and irritation 
of this first probing of my wound. It was kindly done, and 1 might 
have looked tor it; but no one bad ever ventured to speak to me in 
such a plain- and matter-ot-fact way before, and lielt both shocked 
and wounded. My own act it was* too, which had exposed me to 
this— which had made it possible for auy one to speak so to mel 


THE DAYS OF i[Y LIFE. 


221 


TV ell, well I there was baby and Flora, laughing, calling to me, in- 
viting me. I smoothed my disturbed brow as well as 1 could and 
went out to them. 1 had no reason to be offended with Mrs. En- 
nerdale, but 1 certainly was not grateful to her. 

But her raptures were so real over my boy, lier admiration so sin- 
ceie and so ample, that 1 was gradually mollified. She “knew 
about babies,” too— that experience which a young mother prizes 
so liighl}'’; and knowing about them, still pronounced my little 
iiarry almost unrivaled — “ very much like what Gus was when he 
was a baby, Flo,” said Mrs. Ennerale, with a secret sigh, which 1 
knew by instinctive sympath}’' was to the memory of some one 
sweeter than all others, who was only a name now, even to the fond 
reniembiance of the mother. After that, 1 could remember nO' 
ofieuse. 1 began to tell her of little Harry’s illness, to all the symp- 
toms of which she listened with profound attention, now and then 
suggesting something, and wishing, with great fervor, that she had 
but been near at hand. “And if anything should happen again, 
my dear,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, taking hold of my hand in her ear- 
nestness, “ be sure you send for me; seni for me with as little hesita- 
tion as you send for the doctor. I’ve nursed all my own through 
all their little troubles— all but one— and 1 have experience. My 
dear, whatever hour it is, don’t hesitate to send for me!” 

1 promised most heartily and cordially; 1 forgot she had ever said 
a word disagreeable to me; I only thought how kind she was, and 
how much interested in my boy. 

Yes, Mrs. Ennerdale had several motives for coming to fee me— 
a lurking kindness for myself, fond regard for Flora’s wdshes, a 
half intent to lecture and warn and establish herself as my prudent 
adviser — but, above all, the crowning inducement was, baby; noth- 
ing either whole or half grown up had anything like the same 
charm as a baby had to Mrs. Ennerdale; she might have resisted all 
the other motives, but baby was irresistible; and so she had come — 
and so she had fairly won Wer and vanquished me. 

1 made them stay till Edgar came in, and they had lunch with 
us; but my husband, to my surprise, did not relax the state of his 
manners toward me in their presence. 1 could see that both mother 
and daughter were amazed at his elaborate politeness; he thanked 
me for everything 1 did for him; he feared he gave me trouble; 
and Flora and Mrs. Ennerdale glanced at us with troubled looks, 
as if to ask, “ Is there still something w^rong; are you at variance 
still?” My own heart sunk within me; 1 had scarcely been pre- 
pared for this; 1 thought, for my honor and for his own, that he 
would have made an effort to be like himself to-day. 

“ Flora ought not to be away from home; she ought not, indeed, 
at such a time as this,” said Mrs. Fiinerdale, “ but she wishes 
very much to stay till to-morrow. Will you keep her, my dear? 
not if it is to inconvenience you— but she says you would not let her 
come again when you were— ah! — in the country— and that you owe 
her an invitation now. We have spoiled her; she is quite rude, 
asking for an invitation- but it you like, my dear, I shall leave her 
with vou till to-morrow. She has a great deal to tell you, she says.” 

“ What, a great deal more, Flora?” i asked; “ 1 will keep her 
very gladly, longer than to- morrow, if you will let me, and 1 should. 


THE DAYS or ilY LIFE. 


2^2 

like SO much to help it I could. Is there anything you can trust 
me with, Mrs. Ennerdale?” 

“My clear, you have plenty to do with your baby,” said Mrs. 
Ennerdale, conclusively. “ \Yhat a beautiful present that was you 
gave her! far too valuable, indeed, but her papa says he has seen 
youv mamma wear it, and she is so proud of being^alled like your 
mamma. Is that the miniature you told me- of? May I see it? 
Well, indeed. Flora, though it is a great compliment to you, 1 do 
think there is a resemblance — ah, she cvas a pretty creature! but ot 
course 3mucan not recollect her, my dear?” 1 said, “ No,” briefl}^ 
and there was a momentary pause, which, however, Mrs. Ennerdale 
soon interrupted; she was very full of kind counsels to me concern- 
ing m3" baby, and of motherly importance in her own person, full 
of care and bustle as she was, on the eve of the “ first marriage in 
thetamii3".” After luncheon, Mrs. Ennerdale went aw"ay, leaving 
strict injunctions with Flora to be ready to return on the next day 
— m3’ husband returned to his own constant occupations, and I was 
left alone with iny sw’eet young cousin. 

Flora made no investigations, asked no questions, yet even she 
looked up W"isttull3" into my e3"es as she exclaimed, “ How glad 1 
am you are at home! oh, are you not pleased. Cousin Hester, to 
have baby at home?” 

“ Yes, Flora, very glad,” 1 said, though 1 could not help sighing. 
She, sweet simple heart, knew nothing of my troubles. She never 
could know how far astray 1 had gone, nor what a very poor com- 
promise, in real truth, was my position now. 

“And 3"ou will come?” Flora said, blushing all over her pretty 
face. “ It is to be in a mouth — you will he sure to come, Cousin 
Hester? though 1 am afraid you will think it noisy and a great 
bustle, for there are to be a great many — six bride-maids. Do 3"ou 
think it is wrong to be gay at such a lime? but indeed 1 could’ not 
help it, Cousin Hester.”' 

“ And, indeed, 1 do not think it wrong, Cousin Flora,” said 1 , 
smiling at her seriousness; “ and 1 only wish 1 could do something 
to show how very right 1 think it to do honor to a bride. Is there 
nothing you would like yourself that mamma is indifierent about? 
Not anythiog at all that 1 could do tor you, Floral” 

By dint of close questioning it turned out that there were two or 
three things which Flora had set her heart upon, and which mam- 
ma was not remarkahl3'- favorable to; and the result of our con- 
ference was, that 1 wus seized with a strong desire to drive to Cam- 
bridge immediately with my young guest, and make some certain 
purchases. There was time enough yet to do it, and Flora was in 
great delight at the proposal, which gave me also n(> small degree 
of pleasure. After the usual fears that it was troubling me, Flora 
ran upstairs very williugl3" to get read3", and 1, with a little tremor, 
knocked softly at the door of the library. My husband was seated 
ns usual at his table— bus\", or seeming so. W'heu 1 entered he 
looked up, as he always did now whenl went to him, with a startled 
look of expectation. 1 told him we were going to Cambridge, but 
hoped to be back iii time tor dinner. It always confused aud dis- 
turbed me, this look ot his. 


THE DAT’S OF MY LIFE. 225 

“ Anri am 1 to go with j^ou, Hester?’* he said, rising with some 
alacrit}'. 

“ Oh, no,” I said, confused and hesitating; ” I did not mean to 
(rouble you. 1 — of course, if you pleased, we should be very glad;, 
but 1 only wanted to tell you — 1 did not think — ” 

” Veiy well,” he said, silting down, and interrupting my tremu- 
lous explanation. ”1 thank you for letting me know. Perhaps 
Mrs. Templeton had belter delay dinner to give you full time. 1 
hope you will have a pleasant drive. Ah, there is the carriage— 
you should lose no lime, Hester ” 

'Ihus dismissed, 1 hastened away — alwa5’’s, alas — always bringing 
with me when 1 left him a sore heart. Would he have been pleased 
logo? — should I have asked Irm? How ] tormented myself with 
these questions! It we had been living in full mutual love and con- 
fidence I should have said to him, gayly~‘‘ We do not want you; 
this is quite a confidential woman’s expedition— a thing with which 
you have nothing to do; but now 1 went away pondel’ing whether 
1 should not spoil onr little piece of impromptu business, and make 
the drive and the alternoon alike miserable by returning once more,, 
and entreating him to go. 

When we came to the hall door — Flora so bright and smiling, 1 
so careworn and disturbed — he was waiting to put us in tlie car- 
riage; and my heart rose again when he held my hand a moment, 
and asked it 1 was sufficiently wrapped up; and it was impossible 
to resist the influence of this rapid motion, and of Flora’s pleasant 
company. 1 recovered my spirits in spite of myself. We had a very 
quick drive to Cambridge; a round of calls at the principal shops, 
to the gieat satisfaction and delight of Flora; and then it suddenly 
occurred to me that 1 would like to see, it only foi a moment,' our 
old house. 

But when we came to the door, my heart failed me. 1 had never 
been there again since 1 left it after my father’s death, and one 
glance at the tamiliar place was enough to fill my eyes with tears, 
and to bring back the pang of parting to my mind. 

It was now about a year since my father died. 1 had not mourned 
for him with the heavy, lasting, languid sorrow that wears out a 
mind at peace. 1 had mourned him with pangs of- bitter grief, 
with brief agonies more severe but less permanent— and looking 
again at this retired and quiet dwelling-place so associated with 
him, and from which it w'as so impossible to believe him departed, 

1 felt as if 1 had been stricken down at the threshold and could not 
enter. It looked something mysterious, awful, withdrawu'ng thus in 
its perfect stillness— the past dwelling in that deserted place. 

While 1 sat hesitating, gazing at the closed door, 1 saw. Mr. 
Osborne’s familiar cap and gown approaching. 1 knew it was 
Mr. Osborne at the first glance, and, yearning for the sight of a 
familiar lace, 1 looked out from the window, and almost beck- 
oned to him. He came forw'ard witn a ceremonious how, and 
greeted me very statelily — but my heart wms touched, and in 
spite of this 1 began to tell him that 1 had intended to alight 
and dared not. He saw the tears in my eyes, and his manner too, was 
softened. “ i^o,” he said, ” you are quite right, you could not hear 
it. 1, myself, find it hard enough, passing by this familiar door.” 


‘ 224 : 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


He paused a moment, looked at me keenly, and then said, “ ^Yill 
you take me with you, Hesler?-‘are you in haste? — 1 have an old 
engagement with Hairy. Where are you going? — all, then 1 shall 
join you in half an hour; but in the meantimedon’t stay here; close 
the window ; 1 will tell them to drive on, and join you in half an 
hour.” 

When 1 found Mr. Osborne sitting opposite to me as we set out 
again homeward, 1 can not tell how strangely I felt. My cheeks 
were tingling still with the name he had used — Harry 1 — and 1 was 
overpow’ered with all the recollections which his presence brought 
to me. The last time we had been together in the same carriage 
was at my father’s funeral— and all the recollections of that most 
eventful time — my betrothal, iny marriage, my father’s illness and 
death— came rushing back upon me in the sound of his voice. 1 
had hard ado to preserve my composure outwardly— 1 was scarcely 
able to do more than introduce him to Flora, to whom he began to 
talk with pleasure and surprise, as 1 thouglit, pleased with her for 
her name’s sake, though, in the twilight, he could scarcely see her 
sweet face — and then 1 sunk back into my corner, and gave all my 
strength to subdue the tumult of memories and emotions which 
rose in my mind. That 1 should be taking him home to Cottis- 
woode — that he should still speak of my husband as Harry— that 
he should come to see my defeat and anxious struggle to do my 
duty— how strange it was! 

i remember that night as people remember a dream— our rapid 
progress through the dark — the gleam of the carriage lamps — the 
sound of the horses’ feet — the conversation going on between Mr. 
Osborne and Flora, and the long sigh of the wind over the bare 
expatnse of country. We went at a great rate, and reached home 
sooner than 1 expected. It looked so homelike- so bright— so full 
of welcome; the hall-do:)r wide open; the warm light streaming out; 
and my husband standing on the threshold waiting for us. Oh, if 
these were but real tokens, and not false presentiments! It was bit- 
ter to see all this aspect of happiness, and to know how little happi- 
ness there was. 

My husband greeted Mr. Osborne with surprise and pleasure. 
Flora ran upstairs, and 1 went into the drawing-room with our 
new' guest, though, in my heart, 1 longed to be with baby, from 
whom 1 never had been so long absent before. My husband came 
with us, though he and 1 scarcely said anything to each other. I 
could see how' Mr. Osborne’s acute eye watched what terms we 
were on. Then Edgar left us to make some arrangements for our 
visitor’s comfort, and my old friend turned his full attention upon 
me. 

I had taken off my mantle, and he saw the miniature at my neck. 
In a kindly, fatherly fashion he caught the little chain with his fin- 
ger and drew me nearer to him, and looked into my face. 1 could 
not meet his eye— 1 drooped my head under his gaze, and, in spite 
of myself, the tears came. 

” Well, Hester,” he said, gently, in his own kind, half-sarcastic 
tone, ” now that you have experience of it, wdiat do you think of 
life?” 

” It is very hard,” said 1, under my breath. 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 225 

“ Ay, that is the first lesson we all learn,” hesnid; ” have you not 
got heyond this alphabet— is it only hard, and nothing more?” 

1 heard baby’s voice outside. Alice was looking for me. 1 ran 
lor him, opened the door, took my beautiful boy out of the arms of 
Alice, brought him in, and held him out to Mr. Osborne — his face 
brightened into the pleasantest smile 1 had ever seen upon it. 

” Ah, this is your better lesson, is it, young mother?” he said, 
laying his hand caressingly on my head, while he bent to loolt at 
my boy; “ the life is something more than hard which yields such 
blossoms, Hester — is that what this famous argument of yours 
would say? and this irresistible piece of logic is a boy, is he? God 
bless you, little man, and make you the happiest of your race?” 

” 1 must go away, Mr. Osborne, baby wants me,” said 1. 

” Yes, go away; I am quite contented, Hester,” said Mr. Osborne, 
once more patting my head; ‘‘go away, my dear child— you are 
going to cheat me once more into entire approval, 1 can see.” 

1 was pleased; yet 1 went away with a heavy heart, under my 
first flush of gratification. 1 could not help remembering again and 
again what he had said — it was easy to make misery, but who should 
mend it when it was made. 

Oh, my boy, my baby! what a disturbed and troubled heart you 
laid your little head upon ! but its wild and painful beating never 
woke or startled ^ou. 

After dinner, when Flora and I were by ourselves in the drawing- 
room, w^e had our parcels in ami examined them once more— such 
quantities of bright ribbons and pretty cotton frocks; Flora, though 
much delighted, was not quite confident that she had been right — 
she was afraid mamma would think it was a great shame to let Cous- 
in Hester put herself to all this trouble, ‘‘and expense too,” said 
Flora, looking doubtfully up at me, ‘‘ and all for my school-chil- 
dren at Ennerdale. 1 am so much afraid 1 was very wrong to tell 
you of it — and what will mamma say?” 

” Who can we get to make them, Flora?” said 1. 

‘‘ That is just what 1 was thinking of,” said Flora, immediately 
diverted from her self-reproaches; ‘‘mamma’s maid is a famous 
dress-maker, and 1 can cut out things very well myself, and they 
might have a holiday and meet in the school -room, and all of us 
work at them together; there is Mary, and Laura, and Lettie from 
the hall, and our own Annie and Edie, and myself; and oh. Cousin 
Hester, would ^ou come?” 

‘‘ 1 should like to come,” said I, ‘‘but What shall 1 do with 
baby? and I am too old. Flora, for you and your bride-maidens; 1 
am more fit to stay beside mamma.” 

Flora threw her arms round me caressingly, and a roice behind 
me said, ‘‘Does Hester say she is old? Do not believe her, Miss 
Ennerdale; she is a true girl at heart, and nothing better —growing 
younger every day — though you never were very mature nor ex- 
perienced, Hester — I must say that for you ’’—and Mr. Osborne 
•came forward very affectionately and stood by my side. 

My husband entered the room after him ; liad they been talking, 
1 wonder — talking of me? 1 could not tell, but I w^as learned now 
in all the changes of his face, and 1 saw that something had excited 
bim. All this evening ]^Ir. Osborne continued to speak of me so, 
8 


226 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


in a tone of fatherly affectionateness, praise and blame of which 
it was impossible to say that one was kinder Ilian the other. He 
told little simple stories of my girlish days—things that 1 had for- 
gotten long ago— which made Flora laugh and clap lier hands, but 
which embarrassed me dreadfully, and brought tears of real distress 
to my e 3 ’’es. Wliat was my husband thinking— how did he receive 
all this? 1 scarcely dared lift my eyes to him. And then Mr. Os- 
borne touched upon the time of our wooing, and of our marriage! 
wiiiit could he mean? — this could not be mere inadvertence. 1 sat 
trembling, bending down my Head over the work in my hand, my 
eyes tull of tears, afraid to move lest I should betray myself — and 
even Flora grew grave and smiled no longer, wdiile Mr. Osborne 
went on unmoved. Oh, my husband, what was he thinking? 1 
was glad to say faintly that I heard baby crying, and to escape from 
the room — it was more than I could bear. 

Baby was not crying, but sleeping sweetly in his pretty cradle. 
1 bent over him to get calmness and courage from his sleeping face. 
Alice was sitting by the fire, covering a soft ball with scraps of 
bright-colored cloth; just one of those occupations which give the 
last touch of permanence and securitj' tc the appearance of home. 
It was lor bab}^ of course— he had already one or two t 03 ’^s of the 
simplest baby kind, and we had been delighted to peiceive the other 
day how he observed something thrown up into the air like a hall. 
Alice looked up when 1 came to her, and saw at once my disturbed 
face — she guessed what it was, though only imperfectly — and she 
drew m}-^ chair into the corner, and made me sit down and rest — 
“ 1 thought it would be too much tor you. Miss Hester,” said Alice, 
tenderly, ” it brings back everything — 1 know it does— but it’s only 
the first, dear.” 

I was content lo w^ait beside her, and recover m 3 'Self; though all 
the lime my thoughts w^ere busy down-stairs, wondering w’hat he 
might be saying now— and 1 am not sure that 1 was not more eager 
to return than 1 had been to make m 3 ^ escape. Wlun 1 went back 
1 entered the room ver 3 - quietly— for 1 was considerably excited, and 
in my anxiety to appear calm overdid my part. My husband Was- 
seated nearer to Mr. Osborne than he had been, and was bending 
down with his arms resting upon his knees, supporting his head in 
his hands, and gazing into the fire — while Mr. Osborne talked after 
his lively fashion to Flora as if he were not aware of having any 
other auditor — he w'as speaking when 1 came in. 

“I flatter myself 1 am Hester’s oldest friend,” he said, “and 
we have quarreled in our day. She had many disadvantages in her 
childhood. She wanted a mother’s hand; but 1 always did juslivce- 
to her noble qualities, Hester is — well, she is more my own child 
than any one else ever can be. 1 feel as if 1 had found her again— 
and she is — ” 

‘‘ 1 am here, Mr. Osborne,” cried 1— ” oh, don’t, don’t! you onl 3 r 
humiliate me when 3^011 praise me!” 

For there was he sitting silent w’hile 1 was commended, hearing 
about my youth, and perhaps smiling at it bitterly in his heart. It 
struck me down to the very dust to be commended before him ; 1 
would rather have been blamed, for then the unconscious compaii- 
son which 1 always supposed him making between what he knew 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


227 


and what lie heard would have been less to my disadvantage. Mr. 
Osborne did nol know how his kind words and the affectionate tone 
whicii even now touched my heart, and would have made me very 
giateful under any other circumstances wounded and abased me 
now. 

When 1 spoke my husband raised his head, and threw a furtive 
glance at me — what could he be thinking? 1 shrunk before his eye 
as if 1 had been practicing some guilty art —as if 1 had conspired 
with Mr. Osborne to insinuate to him that he had not sufficient re- 
gard for me. 

“7 praise you, Hester! did you ever hear me?” said Mr. Os 
borne, smiling; " 1 W'as but telling Miss Ennerdale how you ex- 
hibited your baby to-day; and your young cousin, Hester, is not to 
be moved out of *the opinion that your boy is the beau ideal of boys; 
my dear child,” lie said, suddenly, lowering his voice, and coming 
to take • seat bes de me, ” she is very like your mother.” 

‘‘ Will you sing to Mr. Osborne, Flora?” said 1. ” 1 think she is 

very like my mother indeed, and she is very happy, and will be 
very happy— there is no cloud coming to her. ” 

He shook his head but was silent, as Flora began to sing. My 
husband took a book, but 1 know he did not read a word of it. He 
sat listening as 1 did to some of those velvety drawing-room love- 
songs which Flora had, purely because they w^ere ” the fashion,” 
and some oth; rs of a better kind which the girl’s own better taste 
Jiad chosen. Mr. Osborne did not admire them as 1 did. He shook 
his head ap^ain slightly, and said, ” a very good girl— a veiy good 
girl,” as Flora’s sweet young voice ran over verse alter verse to 
please him. ” That is not like your mother, Hester,” he said; but 
it was Mr. Osborne that was changed, it was not the music. He had 
been no connoisseur in the old days. 

When Flora closed the piano it was nearly time to go to rest — 
nnd 1 was very glad to find it so. My husband and 1 w’ere left last 
in the room when our visitors had retired — and when 1 went to bid 
him good-night he took my hand in both of his and put it to his 
forehead and his lips. 1 w'as very much agitated — 1 faltered out, 
” have you anything to say to me?” 1 could find no other words 
— and he said, ” no — no, nothing but good-night.” 


THE EIGHTH DA.Y. 

IMr. Osborke was gone — Flora was gone— and we had relapsed 
Into our former quietness. The neighboring ladies called upon me, 
and I called upon them in return; but 1 had no heart either to give 
or to accept invitations— for our personal relations to each other 
w'ere unchanged; and though there was peace, entire dead peace, 
never broken by an impatient word or a hasty exclamation, there 
w'as no comfort in this gU omy house of ours. We were so courte- 
ous to each other, so atraid to give trouble, so full of thanks for any 
little piece of service! To my vehement temper, strife itself w^as 
even better than this, and many times i almost fled out of the house 
— hurried, at least, as much as 1 could decorously— \o refresh my 


228 THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

fevered mind in the fresh air, and ponder over our position again 
and again. 

Wliy did he not make an end of this — but then the question 
would come, wliy did not 1 make an end of it? 1 had come Home 
to do him justice, but he had warned me long beforehand that jus- 
tice would not satisfy him, and had promised solemnly to leave it 
all in my hands. Had 1 all the responsibility?— what could 1 say? 
— what could 1 do^— and it was not always easy to keep down a 
spark of the former bitterness, a momentary resentment against 
him who would not step in to assist me, but who left all the guilt 
and all the burden of this unnatural state upon me. For my own 
part, 1 persuaded myself that 1 had done everything 1 could do — 1 
had made my submission— 1 had biought him justice; — what more 
could be done by me? 

Every time he made his thanks to me, 1 was on the point of 
breaking forth in a passionate protest against being so addressed— 
but 1 know’ not wdiat failing of the Heart prevented me. 1 never did 
it; I learned to thank him myself after the same fashion, to try if 
that would sting him into giving up this obnoxious practice. 1 
could see it did stiug him, but not so far as this; and w’e were still 
polite— oh, so dreadfully courteous, grateful, indebted to each, 
other! 

Upon this day 1 had burst out after my usual fashion, in despera- 
tion, able to bear no more. Had Mrs. Ennerdale or any other pru- 
dent adviser been able to see into my heart, and to take me to task 
for it, 1 could have given no proper reason for my perturbation. 
My husband had not been unkind, but perfectly the reverse — he 
was considerate, careful, attentive in the highest degree; 1 had no 
reasonable cause to find fault with him— but — 1 could not be patient 
to-day. 1 had sufl'ered a great deal, and permitted no sign of it to 
appear in my behavior. 1 had tried to learn the true secret of 
W’ifely forbearance, mildness, gentleness; but 1 w’as of an impetu- 
ous character by nature, and had never been taught to rule or re- 
strain myself. IMy endurance was worn out— it was in my mind to 
make an appeal to him, to tell him he was unjust — unjust! — here 
was 1 using the term again, when 1 had wished so often that there 
was not such a word in the world, 

1 had my mantle on, and the hood draw'n ovei my head. It was 
not unusual for me to wander along this quiet country lane in such 
a simple dress, for there were no passengers here, except the Rectory 
people or villagers from Coitisbourne, and 1 w’as close by home. It 
was late in the afternoon, the first day of November, and the weather 
was dark and cloudy. My husband w’as in the library, where he 
always sat; baby w'as in his cozy nursery upstairs, in the careful 
hands of Alice. He, dear little fellow^, always wumted me, and 1 
was never unhappy while with him— but darkness and discontent 
had settled on me now. 1 realized to myself vividly that gloomy 
picture of a household — two dull large rooms closely adjoining each 
other, the young husband shut up in one, the wife in another. 
Why was it; he was the first to blame; wdiy did he fail to yield me 
now what was due to a woman? Would it not have been generous 
to take the explanation on himself, and disperse this dreadful stifling 
mistwnich every day grew closer around us?— to say— “ we have 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


229 


been Tvrong; let us forget it all, and begin our life again?” He 
ought to say it— it was niy part to wait for him, not he'for me; he 
owed me this, as the last and only reparation he could make lor the 
first deceit which 1 had forgiven. So 1 i-easoned to myself as 1 
wandered along this solitary road ; there was more resentment, more 
displeasure in my mind than there, had been tor many a day. It 
was unnatural, it was shocking, the slate of things wnich now ex- 
isted. 1 began to grow indignant at him for not doing what it so 
clearly seemed his part to do. At this moment I saw Miss Saville 
advancing very slowly and dully along the road. She was so active 
and brisk a person at all times, that 1 was surprised to see the heavi- 
ness of her look and face to-day. She came forward reluctantly, as 
if every step she took added to her burden. Her mind w’as evidently 
oppressed and ill at ease, for she looked round her on every side,, 
and started at trivial sounds as if in fear. When she saw me she 
suddenly slopped, and a red color came to her face. She was not 
ycung, and had never been at all pretty — 1 can not call this a flush, 
but only a painful burning red which came to her cheeks— shame, 
and distress, and fear. 1 did not w^ant to embarrass and distress her 
— I knew how much good lay under her formality and her preten- 
sions now. 

” Do not let me disturb you,” 1 said eagerly, ‘‘ do not mind me 
at all, pray, Miss Saville; 1 see you are engaged.” 

She waited till 1 came up to her, looking at me all the time. “ 1 
was coming to seek you,” slie said; where were you going, Mrs. 
Southcote; are you at leisure, 1 have something to say to you.” 

” 1 was going nowhere,” 1 said. ” 1 am quite at your service — 
what is it?” 

She looked at me again for a moment; ” 1 can’t tell you what it 
is— 1 don’t know— 1 want you to come with me to the Rectory; but 
my dear,” she continued, her ” sense of propriety ” coming to her 
aid, even in the midst of lier agitation, ” hud you not belter go back 
and get your bonnet? it is not becoming to wahi so far in'auch a 
dress.” 

” No one will see me,” 1 said, briefly; ‘‘ but what am 1 to do at 
the Rectory— can you not tell me here?” 

” It is not 1, Mrs. Southcote,” said Miss Saville, wdth suppressed 
agitalion; ” 1 told you once before that we had trouble in our fam- 
ily, and that there was one among us who gave great sorrow to 
William and me: but you did not mind my story, for you were like 
other young people, and thought no trouble so bad as your own. 
But my poor brother Richard is back again here, and he has not im- 
proved his ways, and he is always raving about you. He says he 
Wyants to see you. We won’t let him go up to Cottiswoode. for 
when he sees Mr. Southcote, 1 know^ he constantly seeks money from 
him, and we can not bear that; so, to pacify him, 1 promised to 
look for you to-day, and try to persuade you to come to the Rectory 
with me. Now, my dear, wdll you do it? You would not speak ta 
Jiira before, and 1 could not blame you; but he speaks as if some- 
thing lay upon his conscience— oh, Mrs. Southcote, will you see him 
and hear what it is?” 

” It you wish it, 1 will go,” said 1; ‘‘1 do not want to hear any- 
thing he has got to say myself; but if it will please you, Miss Saville 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


^30 

— 1 know you must have thought me very heartless once — if it 
pleases you, 1 will go.” 

•She said, “thank you, my dear,” breathlessly, and hurried me 
on — though, even now, not without a lament for my bonnet. As 
we came near, 1 saw once more the face of the rector^ peering out 
fiom the corner window. Miss Saville saw it too, and burst into a 
hurried involuntary recital of their troubles. “ VVilliam is misera- 
ble!” she cried with excitement, “ 3'ou don’t know what William 
is, all you people who look at the appearance, and not at the heart 
— he is the best brother— the kindest friend!— and now, when he 
had come to the station he was entitled to, and w’as in the way of 
doing his dutj^ and being respected as he deserves, here comes Rich- 
ard to wring our hearts and expose us to disgrace! If we had money 
to give him he would not stay long with us, but AVilliam would 
rather sacrifice everything in the world than refuse a kind home to 
his brother; and there he is taking care of him— and the rector’s 
study smelling of brandy and water, and bits of cigars upon his 
mantel-shelf and his writing-table— and he as patient as an angel — 
oh, Mrs. Southcole, it’s very bard!” 

As we entered at the trim gate, and went up through the orderly, 
neat aarden, where not a w’eed was to be seen, I could understand 
this smaller aspect of Miss ISaville’s affliction, the ends of cigai-s, and 
the smell of brandy and water, as well as her greater and sorer s('r- 
row over the fallen brother, who still was dear to her — but the idea 
of an interview with him was not more agreeable on this account. 
1 waited vvhile she hurriedly dried her eyes, and went in with her 
very reluctantly. What could this man want with me? and all my 
old abhorrence of him returned upon me as 1 prepared for this un- 
pleasant meeting. He was the first messenger of misfortune to our 
house, and 1 had never tried to surmount my first disgust and aver- 
sion to him. 

The Rev. Mr. Saville’s trim, snug study was Indeed sadly dese- 
crated. He himself, the good rector, was coughing in the atmos- 
phere of smoke which hovered round the fire where Saville sat with 
his legs upon a chair, in insolent ease and luxury. There was no 
brandy and water visible, but the heated look in the man’s face, and 
the close, disagreeable air of the room, were quite enough to justify 
what his sister said. 1 suppose it was in the haste of her agitation 
that she usheied me immediately into the room, where we did not 
seem to be expected, and where 1 scarcely could breathe. 

“ You should not have brought Mrs. Southcote here, Martha,” 
said the rector, who was no less stiff and formal than of old, though 
a painful embarrassment mingled with his elaborate courtesies; 
“ this is not a fit place for a lady — we will join you in the drawing- 
room, Martha.” 

“ Any place wdll do to tell good new^s in,” said Saville, withdraw- 
ing his feet from the chair, and sitting erect. “ Give the lady a 
seat, Martha, and leave us; glad to see you, Mrs. Southcote— glad 
to have an opportunit}" of making my statement to you — had you 
heard it sooner it might have saved you trouble. JNow, good peo- 
ple, why are you waiting? This piece of news does not concern 
you. William, take Martha away.’' 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 231 

“ Oli, don’t leave me. Miss Saville,” I said, retreating a little, and 
grasping her hand. 

“ What, afraid!” said the man, with a sneer; “you had more 
spirit when I saw 3 n)U first, young lady; but as this that 1 have lu 
say to you,” he continued, gravely, ‘ is of the greatest impoitance 
to your family, 1 leave it with yourself to judge whether it would 
not be best to keep it foi jmur owm ears alone.” 

M hat could it be? 1 looked earnestly at him. and he at me. I 
was no coward, and here, where I had only dislike, and no other 
feeling which could betraj" me, 1 was brave enough after the first 
moment. 1 turned to the rector and jMiss Saville,- who stood behind, 
half frightened, half displeased, and full of anxious curiosit 3 ^ 
“ Pray leave us, us be says,” said 1 “ If it is anything worth your 

hearing, 1 will tell you what it is — but in the meantime he will not 
speak till you are gone.” 

The rector made a bow to me, and withdrew slowly, much agitat- 
ed, and very nervous, as 1 could see. Miss Saville went more re- 
luctantly. “It was a very strange thing to turn the rector out of 
his own study tor a secret conference,” she muttered as she went 
away. Saville laughed — “ Though it will be worth their hearing, 
I’ll warrant ymu d"b not tell them a word of it,” he said with the 
same coarse insinuation of something wrong or untruthful, which I 
reme jibered so well on that first day when he came to Gottis woode. 
“ They are very curious, the fools!— as it they had anything to do 
Avith it.. Now, Mrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode, are you ready to 
hear me?” 

1 had drawn my chair away to the window out of reach of his 
smoky’- atmosphere and his immediate presence— an artifice at which 
he laughed again— 1 bowed slightly in assent; and now he rose, and 
coming toward me, stood leaning upon the corner ol the recess 
w’hich inclosed the window, looking down into my face. 

“ i hear that my friend Edgar and you don’t get on together,” 
said the man, with rude familiarity; “ pity when such things arise 
in families — and generally verv bad policy too — but, however, that 
can’t be helped in the present case, lie’s disposed to be masier, 1 
suppose, and, after all, though you’ve humbled your pride to marry 
him, 3 ’ou’ve not got Cottiswoode.” 

“ If ymu w’ish only to insult me,” 1 said, starting from my chair, 
“ not eVen for your good brother and sister’s sake can 1 endure this 
impertinence. How do you dare to speak in such a tone to me?” 

“ 1 dare worse things than facing a pretty young lady,” said 
Saville, with his insolent laugh, “ but that is not the question, and 
you shall have none of my impertinence if y'ou like it so little; 
though 1 thought you were too honest to sham a reason for this mar- 
riage of yours; however, as 1 have said, that is not the question. 
As for your family happiness, every clown in the district knows 
what that is, as, of "course, you are aware. And if 1 had been you 
I’d have stayed away, and not made a fool' of myself by coming 
back.” 

I said nothing. 1 felt my face burn, and there was an impulse 
of fury in my heart -fury, blind wild rage, murderous passion. 1 
could have struck him down where he stood before me, with his 
odious sneer upon his face — but 1 did not move. 1 compressed my 


^32 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


lip and clasped my hands together, till the pressure xvas painful, but 
1 made no other indication of how i felt the insult of his words. 
Yes, this was justice— 1 acknowledged it — my fitting punishment. 

“ Well, things being so,” continued Saville, drawing a chair 
tow’ard him and sitting down upon it, after he had gazed at me 
maliciously to see the effect of his words, and had been disappointed 
— ” 1 think yru are a very fit client forme; Edgar has di)ne me 
more than one shabby trick— 1 give him up; 1 do as l am done by 
— that's my principle — and a very honest one, 1 maintain; so if you 
choose to make it worth my while, ITl put you in possession of all 
1 know, and give you my zealous assistance to recover your rights. 
These fools here,” he said, waving hia hand contemptuously to in- 
dicate his brother and his sister, will tell you periiaps what a dissi- 
pated. fellow I am. What can a man do in this wretched hole of a 
place? Give me excitement, and 1 don’t care a straw how it’s come 
by; 1 owe Edgar Southcote a hard hit yet — and hang me, but he 
shall have it, one way or another.” 

This speech aw’oke me at once out of anger, mortification, every 
personal feeling — 1 no longer ftared or hated him — L was roused to 
a cool and keen obseiwation, a self-possession and firmness which 1 
did not know 1 possessed. 1 felt the stirring of strength and spirit 
in me like a new' life. 1 w'as on the verge of a dangerous secret— a 
conspiracy— a plot against Edgar! The fool! the fool! to betiay his 
evil counsels to Edgar’s wife. My heart beat quicker, my courage 
Tose, 1 was like one inspired; a little caution, a little prudence, and 
1 might save my husband — how w'armly the blood came to my heart! 
1 looked at him eagerly; 1 did not care to suppress the sparkle of 
excitement in my eyes; 1 knew his evil imagination woidd interpret 
it very differently from the truth: his evil intent, and m}^ owm con- 
scious purpose gave me perfect confidence in addressing him — tor 
he had no perception of truth, or love, or honor, and never would 
suspect W’hat lay beneath my eager willingness to hear him now, 

” Tliere is some secret, then,” said 1— ” what is it? what is it? 
what are the riglitsthat you will help me to regain? Such a startling 
speech makes me anxious, of course — what do you mean?” 

‘‘ 1 suppose,” said Savile, very slowiy, to pique ray curiosity. 
” that before you can be expected to put any dependence in me, 1 
must tell you my story— first let me collect mv'- evidences;” ana he 
took a pocket-book Irom bis pocket, and collected several papers 
out of it, with great care and deliberation, now and then glancing 
at me under his eyebrows to see it 1 was impatient. 1 was not im- 
patient — I watched him keenly — coolly— not a movement or a 
glance escaped my notice; 1 was Edgar’s advocate, and 1 ivas 
watching his enemy. 

“Mr. Brian Southcote,” said Saville, going on slowly, and now 
and then looking up at me as he sorted his papers, “ was an ex- 
tremely benevolent pereon— so much so that ill-natured xieoplc said 
be had no v ill of his owui, amt that he did not care how wwong or 
how foolish anything W'as, so long as it was generous; perhaps'you 
object to such plain speaking when your respectable relative is the 
subject,” be said, stopping sJiort with a low bow. \ 

Pray, go on^ go on!” said 1 impatiently. 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 233^ 

1 suppose he thought now that he hail tantalized me sufficiently, 
for he proceeded at a less deliberate pace. 

“ It is said that his younger hTothei. Mr. Ploward, had married the 
lady to whom they were both attached, and lived in his father’s 
house, in possession of all the ordinary privileges of an lieir, while 
the elder brother was self-banished in Jamaica, on pretense of look- 
ing after an estate, which he knew nothing about, and had not ac- 
tivity enough to have done anything tor, even it he had been in- 
formed. Now, Mrs. Southcote, under these circumstances, your 
uncle, being still a young man, of course married the first woman 
who made herself agreeable to him— and this woman happened to 
be my cousin, the widow of a young naval officer— a young penni- 
less widow with one boy.” 

1 started involuntarily — 1 could see already wdieiethe serpent was 
winding — was this the secret? 

“With one boy,” he continued significantly, ” called Harry South- 
cote— you see there is not much difference even in the name; this 
child, as I wiP show you by a paper executed by your uncle some 
time before his marriage, he had already chosen for his heir, direct- 
ing that he should take his name, and, after his death, he called 
Harry Southcote. It is not to be supposed that, after Mr. South- 
cote married Mrs. Southern, his partiality for the boy slu-uld di- 
minish; and this boy 1 have every reason to suppose is your husband, 
whom, by politeness, 1 will still call Edgar Southcote of Gottis- 
woode.” 

1 was stunned for the moment— the story looked reasonable, true 
— it was no exaggerated malicious lie coined on the spot. 1 looked, 
up wdlh dismay into the hard exultation of this man’s face— but 
when 1 caught his cunning evil eye, my heart revived. 

” Had you always reason to suppose this?” 1 said, keeping my 
eyes fixed upon him. 

For a moment, only a rnoment, his confident glance fell. ” Of 
course not— of course not,” he said, with a little bustle and swag- 
ger, which 1 could see was to conceal some embarrassment. ” When 
1 look steps in the matter, you may be sure I thought I had got 
hold of the right person; it is only lately that 1 have found my 
error out. ’ ’ 

” And how did you find it out?” 1 asked perseveringly. 

” Upon my word, young lady, you try a man’s patience,” cried 
my respectable adviser—” 1 did find it out— what concern liave you 
with the how? If you are disposed to take advantage of my infor- 
mation, it is at your service— but \ will not be badgered by the per- 
son tor whose sole benefit 1 have taken so much trouble. Will that 
convince 5"ou— look?” 

He almost threw at me one of the papers in his hand— 1 lifted it 
up mechanically— 1 was so sure what it would say from his descrip- 
tion, that 1 almost fancied 1 had read it before. It was a wdll, be- 
queathing all the personal property of the writer to Plariy Southern, 
the son of the late George boulhern. Lieutenant R.N., on condition 
of his assuming the name of bouthcote; 1 read it over twice, and it 
struck me strangely enough, that after the first v\'ords of the be 
quest there was a parenthesis (” it he survives me ”), which was re- 
peated every time the name of Harry Southern occurred. 1 held it- 


234 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


out — iiolding it fast, however — to iSavllle, and asked him what it 
meant. 

“ xV mere point of law,” he answered indifferently, ” what could 
it be else? Ladies, 1 know, never understand business; but these 
trifling matters have nothing to do with the main question — you see 
very clearly who this child was— there can be no mistake about 
that.” 

” 1 see nothing to identify him with Edgar Southcote,” 1 said. 

‘‘ Y"ou are skeptical,” said Saville— let me see if lean convince 
you; here are some papers which throw light upon the matter.” 

These papers were letters— three of them — bearing dates very 
near to eacn other— all referring in terms of tender loudness to some 
little Harry; the first was signed ” Maria Siuithern,” the other 
two ‘‘ Maria Southcote,” but little Harry had quite as much part in 
the former as in the latter, and these documents were evidently 
true. 1 was greatly Uisturbed — could it be so? could it be so? Was 
iny husband only the heir, and not the sod of Brian Southcote? 
Tlie evidence was very startling to my unused and ignorant eyes, i 
kept the papers closely in my hand, resolved not to give them up 
^gain. 1 did not know what arguments to use to myself to cast off 
this fear- at last 1 cried, abruptly—” If this was the case he could 
not be like the Southcotes— he would be like your family — but he 
is like Edgar the Scholar; 1 found out the resemblance at once. ” 

” It is easy to find resemblances when your mind is turned to it,” 
said Saville. ” Is he as like now?— and suppose he had been intro- 
duced to you as Harry Southern, would you ever have cared to ex- 
amine who he was like?” 

Harry Southern! the idea was intolerable. 1 started from my 
seat — 1 could not bear it any longer. ” 1 shall think over this, and 
let you know what 1 will do,” 1 said, hurriedly. ” It is very start- 
ling news — 1 must have some time to aaccustom myself to it, and 
then 1 shall be able to tell yon what 1 can do,” 

” Be so good as to return me my papers, then,” said Saville; ” by 
all means think it over — it is no joke— you had best be prudent; 
but, in the meantime, let me have my papers— they are my prop- 
jcrty, not yours.” 

” 1 will not give them back— they concern me loo nearly,” said 1. 
” Stay — if 3’ou try to take them 1 Bhall call your brother. 1 will not 
endure your touch, sir — stand back— these letters are Miss Saville’s — 
1 will undertake that no harm shall happen to them, that you shall 
eome to no loss — but 1 will not give them back.” 

1 did not move, but stood within the reach of his arm, fixing my 
eyes full upon him as 1 spoke. He could not bear an honest gaze; 
he stared at me with impotent fury, but he dared not resist me. 1 
saw his terror at the thought of summoning his brother, and how’ 
lie lowered his voice and drew back his hand at the very mention of 
the rector’s name. 

” You are a bold young lady— but 1 like your spirit,” he said, 
with a scowl which belied his words. ” Well, 1 consent that you 
shall keep the papers — that is to say, 1 trust them to your houor— 
si; all 1 have your decision to-morrow?” 

” 1 can not tell — 1 must have time,” 1 said, growing nervous at 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 235 

last, and dratving nearer the door; “ have you ever mentioned this? 
does Mr. Soutlicote know?” 

‘‘ \’ou will not tell him?” cried Suville fiercely, starting and fol- 
lowing me, “ you will not be so foolish as to show him your hand 
before the play begins? 1 knew women were fools in business, but 
1 did not expect this from you — from you, Mrs. Southcote! you do 
not mean to pretend you are so loving and true a wife. Ko, I am 
not a likely person to have mentioned it— I know my man too well; 
small evidence 1 should have had if it had ever come to his knowl- 
edge — 1 will not permit you to risk my papers in Edgar South— in 
Harry Southern’s hands.” 

As he advanced upon me, 1 retreated— as he grew vehement, 1 
threw the door open and walked hastily away— he followed nie 
with great strides, yet restrained by a strange cowardice which 1 
knew how to take advantage of— and when his sistti suddenly ap- 
peared from the next room, he stopped short, and threw a look of 
cowardly threatening, and yet entreaty, upon me. Di» not let him 
follow me,” I whispered to her — but 1 knew they would take care- 
ot that — and though I managed to leave the house at a decorous 
pac-e, whenever 1 got into the lane 1 began to run. 1 had always 
been swift-footed from a child — now 1 fiew along the solitary lane, 
scarcely feeling that 1 touched the ground, holding the pai>ers close 
under my mantle. M’hen 1 came to Cottiswoode, flushed, and eager 
and breathless, 1 did not pause even to throw back my hood, but 
hastened to the library. There was no one there— 1 hurried out dis- 
appointed, and asked for Mi. Southcote. He had gone out some time 
ago 1 w'as told, and had left a message for me with Alice. 1 ran up- 
stairs — the message was that he was suddenly called to Cambridge, 
and could not expect to return till late at night — and he hoped ] 
would not think of waiting up for him — it was sure to be very late 
when he came home. 

1 can not tell, indeed, whether 1 was most relieved or disappointed 
to hear this; though 1 think the latter— yet now, at least, I would 
have time to think over this tale, to try if it was a fable, a mon- 
strous invention, or if it could be true. It was late, and i got little 
leisure till baby was asleep, but when he w’^as laid down to his 
rest, and Alice left the room, 1 sat down by her little taole and un- 
folded my papers. My heart beat loud while 1 read them over — 
my fears sickened me. 1 had no longer the presence of Suville before 
me, strengthening me in unbelief and opposition. Alas, poor per- 
verse tool! this was a fit conclusion to all the misery 1 had made; 
this long year of troubles ever since my mairiage 1 had been bitterly 
and cruelly resenting the discovery that my husband was Edgar 
Southcote— now' how gladly w'ould 1 have hailed, how’ wildly re- 
joiced in, an assurance that he had indeed a title to that name. The 
more 1 examined, the more 1 pondered, the more my fears grew 
upon me. It Edgar was an unwitting, involuntary impostor— the 
thought w’as terrible— and still more terrible it was tc- think that Cottis- 
w'oode w'ould then be mine. 1 thought i could have borne to leave 
a wrongful inheritance with him, had it been pure loss to both of 
us; but that 1 should be ‘‘ righted ” by his dowuifall— ah, that was 
a justice 1 had nut dreamerl of! 1 could not rest —1 w'anted to do 
something immediately to settle this question; but that it was so 


236 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


late, 1 think I would have followed him to Cambridfije— but that 
was not to be thought ot now: sol wandered up and down from 
the library to my own room, always returning to the letteis — and 
tried to conceal from myself how the hours went on, and how the 
household was going to rest. 1 still hoped that 1 might have gone 
to him at once on his return, and il was only when Alice, with a sleepy 
face, came calling me to baby, that 1 3 delded at last, and went to 
bed, blit not to sleep. Through all the dreary midnight hours after 
that L lay still and listened, hearing every sound, and supposing a 
hundred times over that 1 heard him return. Now and then 1 
started up after a few moments’ sleep, and went to the door to look 
out and listen — but there was still the dull light burning in the hall, 
the silence in the house, the drowsy stir ot the man who waited for 
his master below— then my restlessness made baby restless also, and 
1 had to occupy myself with him, and subdue my anxiety for his 
sake, it was a dreary night; but 1 had nothing for it but to sub- 
mit— lying still, sleeping in snatches, dreaming, trunking— thoughts 
that ran into dreams, and longing, as only watchers Jong, tor the 
morning light. 


THE NINTH DAY. 

I WAS astir by dawn; but before even Alice came to me 1 was 
aware that my husband had not returned. The sleepy light in the 
hall still burned through the early morning darkness, and the 
watcher still stirred the fire, which had not gone out all night. 
When 1 made sure of this 1 hastened down to relieve the man from 
his uncomfortable vigil, and on my way met Mrs. Templeton, newly 
roused, who began immediately to assure me that “ something very 
particular must have detained master— i: was a thing he had never 
done before all his life — but she hoped 1 would not be uneasy, for 
he’d be sure not to stay from home an hour longer than he could 
help.” 1 do not know how it was, but this speech ot the house- 
keeper’s roused me into unreasonable anger. 1 was offended that 
any one should suppose my husband’s conduct wanted defense to 
me; or worse still, that any one should presume to know him belter 
than 1 did. 1 answered briefly that 1 was aware Mr. Southcote 
had business to detain him, and hastened to my looni to complete 
my dress. Almost unconsciously to myself, L put on a dark, warm 
traveling dress; the morning was brisk, frost}^ and cheerful, ana 
for the moment 1 was roused with the stimulus of having something 
to do. Somehow even his absence and the long watch of the night 
did not dismay me— all at once it occurred to me, not how miser- 
able, but how foolish our discords were; the ordinary view— the 
common sense of the matter flashed upon me with a sudden light. 
1 blushed for myself, ^mt 1 was roused; half a dozen frank words 
on either side, 1 suddenly thought, would set us right at once. 1 
moved about my room with a quickened step, a sentiment of free- 
dom; Saville’s papers, my own fears, all the dismay and anxiety of 
the night, united, I can not tell how, to give an impulse of hearty 
and courageous resistance to my mind. There was something to 
do; 1 forgot my own guilt in the matter, and all tire deeper feel- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


237 


insrs wliich were concerned. 1 thought of it all with impatience, as 
1 have sometimes thought of the entanglements of a novel, which a 
spark of good sense would dispel in a moment. 1 forgot — though 
1 was about the last person in the world to whom such a forget- 
fulness should have been possible— that good sense could not restore 
Jove, nor heal the bitterness of wounded altection, 1 determined 
for my own part not to lose a moment, not even to think it over, 
but to go direct to my luisband at once, and say those same half 
dozen sensible, frank, good-humored words which should put an 
end to it all; strange enough, my mind never misgave me as to the 
result. 

1 breakfasted in tolerably good spirits, I made no account of the 
anxious looks ot Alice; 1 was occupied with thinking of everything 
we could do, of the world ot possibilities which lay before us, if 
we were but right with one a 'other; how I could have lulled my- 
self into ease so long, 1 can not tell. 1 awoke out of it all with a 
start and ciy when 1 heard the greai clock strike twelve, and look- 
ing out— out ot my lonely chamber window, out of my new dreams 
— saw die broad country lying under the broad, full, truthful sun- 
shine; the morning mists dispersed and broken, and the day come 
to its noon. 

Noon! my bright figments perished in a moment: he had not 
come home, he had not written nor sent any message; had he for- 
,saken me, as 1 forsook him? 

1 got up from my seat at once, feeling nevertheless as if some one 
had stunned me by a sudden blow. Though Alice was in the room, 
1 did not make her my messenger as it rvas my custom lo do, but 
rans: the bell myself, ordered the carriage instantly, and put on my 
bonnet. Alice came to help me without saying anything; my fears 
caught double confirmation from her silence. Something must 
have happened! she never asked where I was going, nor it she 
should accompan}’’ me, yet helped me to get ready as if 1 had told 
her all my thoughts. 

“ Where did he say he was to go?” 1 asked under my breath. 

She told me; he had gone to a lawyer’s in Cambridge, about some 
justice business-- nothing that could detain him. 1 said nothing 
more, except to bid her be careful ot baby, whom 1 had nev^er 
before left so long as I most likely should leave him now. Then I 
hastened aw'ay. The winter noon w'as bright, the road crisp and 
white with frost, the air exhilarating and joyous. 1 leaned forward 
at the cari'iage window, looking out eagerly, if perhaps 1 might 
meet him refurniug; but the only person 1 saw was Saville, his ene- 
my, pacing up and down the lane between the Rectory and Cottis- 
woode, waiting, as I supposed, to see .me. The sight of this man 
brought my einotion to a climax. Any one who knows what anxiety 
is, will readily know that 1 had already leaped the depths of a dozen 
calamities— accident, illness, death itself— which might have hap- 
pened to my husband -and when it occurred lo me now, that 1 
might be going to his sick bed or his death-bed, with these paper.''., 
which pretended to prove that he was not what he seemed, folded 
into my hand, 1 scarcely could bear the intolerable thought. 1 could 
not venture to anticipate bow he would receive me if downfall camo 
.to him. I had deprived myself of all that generous joy of helping 


238 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


and lightening which might have given a certain pleasure to a good 
wife even in her liiisband’s misfortune. 1! — 1 dared not be gener- 
ous to Edgar— dared not appear to come closer to him in his humil- 
iation, if humiliaiion there was. 1 went on blindly in a kind of 
agony, scarcely venturing to think how 1 should speak, or what I 
should do. Tf anything had happened to Edgar — any of those 
physical misfortunes which people speak of, as cuiliug forth the 
disinterested and iinselfish devotion of women, what could 1 do, 
who, all these weary months, hud been resenting so billeily his dis- 
interested aftection for me? And if Saville was right— if I, and 
not Edgar, was the true heir after all, how would it become me to 
rejoice, as any other wife could have done, in the certainty that all 
that was mine was his as well. In a moment our positions were 
changed. 1 thought of my husband— Edgar — Hairy! as a poor 
man, having no title to anything save through his wife. 1 thought 
of him solitary and in suflering, able to make no exertion for him- 
self, depending for all care and tenderness iipon me. Heaven help 
me! this was the recompense 1 had labored to secure for myself; 
our positions were changed; and how could 1 dare to ofler to him 
the same love and benefits which 1 had rejected so bitterly when 
he offered them to me? 

Yet we still went on at full speed to Cambridge. When we came 
to our destination I alighted breathelessly, half expecting to en- 
counter him at once, and without the faintest notion ot what I was 
to say, or how to account for my errand. But he was not there — 
he had left this house, and, indeed, had left the town, early in the 
previous evening. 1 turned away from the door, sick to the heart. 
1 asked no more questions. 1 would not betray my ignorance of 
his movements to strangers. He had left Cambridge to go home, 
but he had not come— had hd left me?— had something happened ta 
him?— what could 1 do? 

And there stood Joseph at the carriage-door asking where we were 
to go next. How could i tell? When I recollected myself, 1 bade 
him go to our old house, my father's house, and to drive slowly. 
1 do not know why 1 wished to go slowdy — perhaps with some un- 
reasonable idea of meeting Edgar on the way. 

When 1 reached the house this time, 1 alighted and went in; for 
the first time since my father’s death. That strange old, dreary, 
silenl house where dwelt the past— what had 1 to do there? 1 went 
wandering about the rooms, up and clown, in a kind of stupor, 
looking at everything with dull curiosity — noticing the decay of 
the furniture, and some spots of damp on the w'alls, as if 1 had 
nothing more important on my mind. 1 can not account for the 
strange pause 1 made in my agony of anxiety, fear, and bewilder- 
ment. 1 did not know w tiat to do— 1 could not even think— there 
seemed a physical necessity for standing still somewhere, and re- 
covering the power of myself. 

1 was in the library, looking round, seeing everything, yet only 
halt aware where 1 was— when 1 started almost with superstitious 
terror to hear in the passage behind a well-knowm alert footstep, 
and the rustle of Mr. Osborne’s gown. He had seen the carriage 
at the door as he passed— for he lived so near that he could not go 
anywhere without passing this way— and came to me in haste wliea 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 239 

lie heard 1 was here. He came up anxiously, took lu}' hand, and 
asked me what was the matter? 1 looked ill, 1 suppose. 

And my heart yearned to have somebody to trust to — the sound 
of his voice restored me to myself. “ 1 am in great trouble,” 1 
said; ” have you seen Edgar, Mr. Osborne? — is be here?” 

” Here!” It would indeed have been a strange place to find him. 

” 1 do not mean in tliis house,” said I, with a little impatience; 
“ is he in Cambridge? have you seen him — 1 want to know where 
he is.” 

” It is a strange question, Hester, yet 1 am glad to hear you ask 
it,” said Mr. Osborne; ” 1 presume, now, you are both coming to 
your right mind.” 

” No— soon 1 shall not care for anything, right or wrong,” said 
1, “Edgar — he is a man — he should have known better — he has 
gone away.” 

Then immediately 1 contradicted myself in my heart— he could 
not have gone away!— and yet — and yet! — “ Where is he?” I cried. 
“ 1 have To speak to him — 1 have a great deal to say, Mr. Osborne! 
— he had better not do what 1 did — he is not a tool like me— he was 
not brought up like me, among ghosts in this house— he ought to 
know better than me!” 

Mr. Obsorue took my hand again, made me sit down, and tried 
to soothe me. Then 1 told him ot Edgar’s absence — it was only 
one night — it was no such great matter — he smiled at my terror; 
but, at the same time, he bade me wait for him here, and went out 
to make inquiries, 1 remained for some lime alone in the house — 
alone, wdth recollections of my father — of myself — of Harry — of all 
those young thoughts without wisdom, hopes without fear! I started 
up with renewed impatience. 1 could not, would not, suffer this 
unnatural tolly to continue. Ah, it was very well to say that! but 
what could 1 do? 

When ]Vlr. Osborne came back he looked a little grave. 1 pene- 
trated his thoughts in a moment;— he thought some accident had 
befallen Edgar. He advised me to go home immediately and see if 
there w^as any word— if 1 did not hear before to-morrow, he would 
come out and advise wUh me, he snid. So 1 went away again, 
alarmed, unsatisfied— reluctant that Mr. Osborne should come, yet 
clinging to the idea, and full of the dreariest anxiety to know what 
news there might be al home. As 1 drove along in the twilight ot 
the sharp winter night, 1 tried to settle upon what 1 should do. Sav- 
ille! If Edgai had left me, what could I do with this man? for 1 
made up my mind to destroy the papers, and that my husband 
should never know of the doubt thrown upon him, it he had really 
gone aw^ay. 

We were very near Cotlisbouine on the Cambridge side, driving 
rapidly, and it was now quite dark. The first sharp sparkles of 
liglit jfrom the village windows were just becoming visible along 
the dreary length of road, and a few cold stars had come into the 
sky; my heart w^as beating last enough already, quickening with 
every step we advanced on the road home, when some one shouted 
to us lo stop; we did stop after a moment’s contused parley, in 
which 1 could only distinguish that it was the rector’s name whieh 
induced the coachman to draw up. Mr. Saville! it was his ofiice to 


240 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


communicate calamities — to tell widows and orphans when a sud- 
den stroke made them desolate— a sudden horror overpowered me 
— I leaned out of the window speechless, gazing into the darkness, 
and when 1 saw the light of the carriage-lamps falling upon the 
rector’s troubled face, 1 waved my hand to him imperiously, almost 
fierce in my terror. “ Tell me!” 1 cried; ” I can bear it. 1 can 
bear the very worst. Tell me!” He drew near with a fluttered, 
agitated air, while 1 tried to open the carriage-door. Witli a sud- 
den pang of joy anti relief 1 saw that he did not understand me — 
that he had no wmrst to tell; but was holding back by the arm the 
other Saville, the enemy of our house. 

” Here! 1 have something to tell you,” cried this man, struggling 
forward; ” do you call this keening your w'ord, young lady? what 
do you nuan by keeping my papers, a'nd then running aw'ay?” 

‘‘Mr. Saville,” 1 said, hastily appealing to the rector, “1 have 
nothing to say to him, yet. The papers are not his, but Miss Sav- 
ille’s — when i have anything to say to him 1 will come to the Rec- 
tory; just now 1 am very anxious to gel home; oh, i beg of you, 
bid them drive home!” 

‘‘Don’t do anything of the sort, William,” said Saville; “stop, 
you fellow! So your precious husband’s run aw’ay — I thought as 
much. Stop, do you hear! I’ve something to say to the lad^’. 
\Yii.y, Mrs. Southcote, have you forgotten the appointment you 
made with me to day?” 

‘‘ Is he mad?” cried 1 — for he had jumped upon the step, and 
stood peering in at me through the open w indow. 1 w’as not fright- 
ened now, but 1 was very angry. I shrunk back to the other siae 
ut the carriage, disgusted by his near vicinity, and called to Joseph. 
‘‘ ]Mo, ma’am, he’s not mad, he’s only drunk,” said doseph. While 
Ihe}'^ struggled together, the coachman drove on again, and Saville 
was thrown to the ground. Tiie poor rector! he stood by, looking 
on, with dismay, and fright and liorror — thinking of the disgrace,, 
and of his ” position,” and of w'hat people wmuld say; but the only 
wmy to save him as well as myself was to hasten on. 

And there was Cottiswoode at last — the open door, the ruddy 
light — but Edgar was not standing b^’’ to help me— my hiisbind 
had not come home! 1 had begun to hope that he had— 1 stepped 
into the hall with the heaviest disappointment — 1 could have thrown. 
m 3 'selt down on the floor before the servants in an agony of self- 
humiliation. It was all my owm doing — he had gone away. 

Just then Mrs. Templeton made her appearance in considerable 
slate, holding a letter. ISo doubt she as w^ell as myself concluded 
what it was— a leave-taking— a final explanation- such a wretch- 
ed letter as 1 had once left for him. ‘‘ This came immediately 3 'ou 
were gone, ma’am,” said Mrs. Templeton, who looked as if she 
had been crying. ‘‘It ought to have come last night — but 1 gave 
the fellow such a talking to as he won’t forget yet awhile. Please 
to remember, ma’am, it wasn’t master’s fault.” 

1 took no notice of this — my whole mind was on the letter. 1 
hastened in with it, without a word, and closed upon myself the 
door of the library. With trembling hands I tore it open — alter that 
1 think 1 must have fallen down on my knees in the extreme thank- 
fulness which, finding no words, tried to say by altitude aud out- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 241 

ward expression what it could not say with the lips— for this was all 
that Edgar said — 

“My dear Hester,— 1 have with me an old friend unexpect- 
edly, and have engaged to go with him to look after some business- 
of importance. 1 am grieved to be absent without letting you know 
- and 1 have no time now to explain— 1 shall endeavor to be home- 
to-moirow night. Affectionately, 

“Harry" E. Soutiicote.” 

1 remained on my knees, holding by a chair, trembling, looking; 
at the name— did he always sign himself so? 1 — I knew nothing at 
all about my husband;— since he w’as my husband 1 had never got a 
letter from him before. Harry!— was he Harry, and not Edgar to 
every one but me? 

Then 1 sprung up in the quick revulsion and change of all my 
thoughts;— I ran out to call for Alice— to call for Mrs. Templeton 
— to make prepaiations for his return as if he had been years away. 
They were all glad, but amazed, and did not understand me. No; 
1 w’as far too unreasonable for any one to understand. 1 was in 
wild, high spiiits now— singing to mj^self as 1 ran upstairs for 
baby. 1 said to myself — lite was coming— life was beginning — and 
that our old misery should not go on longer — not for a day! 

And then the evening stole on bj- gentle touches — growdng late 
before 1 knew. 1 went myself to see everything prepared— 1 
watched the fires, which would not keep at the climax point of 
brightness, but constantly faded and had to be renewed again. 1 
exhausted myself in assiduous attention to all the lesser comforts 
which might refresh a traveler on this wintery night. 1 went out 
to the avenue to see what a cheerful glow the windows of the li- 
brary threw Dut into the darkness; and within, it was pleasant to 
see how the whole house w^armea and brightened under my un- 
usual energy. The servants contemplated all this with evident sur- 
prise and bewilderment. From Joseph, who came to tell me that 
he had seen Saville safel}'' housed in the Rectory, though with great 
trouble to the rector, who scarcely could keep his brother from fol- 
lowing me to Cottiswoode— and Mrs. Templeton, whose manner 
toward me all the day had been very stately and disapproving— up 
to Alice, w’ho never asked a- question, but looked on, a most anx- 
ious spectator, only able to veil her interest by entire silence — 
every one watched me and wondered. 1 knew as if by intuition 
how these lookers-on waited for the crisis of the story which had 
progressed before their e3'es so long. Yes, my pride had need to- 
have been humbled — it was 1 that had made of our household lite 
a drama of passion and misery for the amusement of this humble 
audience— and 1 had my reward. 

The evening grew late, but still no one came— 1 could not help 
growing very anxious once more; then, stirred into excitement 
the sound of some arrival, 1 was bitterly disappointed to see only 
Miss Saville, coming, as anxious as me, though after a different 
fashion, to find out ft she could what the subject was which had been 
discussed between her brother and mj^self. 1 W’as grieved for her 
distress, but 1 could not answer her — my own trouble was full oc- 
cupa’.ion for me— and I said only, “ to-morrow, to morrow!”— that 


S42 THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 

to-morrow which, one w’ay or other, woultL-he another era — a new 
time. 

All this day 1 had avoided even looking at the papers which 
were Saville’s evidence against Edgar. 1 kept them safe as 1 might 
have kept a loaded pistol, afraid of meddling with them. But alter 
Miss Saville left me, 1 did what 1 could to cosnpose myself, and en- 
<ieavored to examine them again. 'When I read them 1 grew faint 
with the terror of ignorance. 1 knew nothing about laws of evi- 
dence; and worse than that, 1 knew nothing of my husband’s early 
history, and could not tell whether there might not be some other 
explanation of these letters. One thing in them struck me with a 
gleam ot hope; there was a strange, scarcely explainable sliade of 
difference between the first letter and the other two. 1 could not 
define it; but the impression left on my mind w’as, that the little 
Harry ot the former paper was a child a few years old, while the ex- 
pressions in the other letters were such as 1 mj’^self usedwhen speak- 
ing of my little Harry, and seemed to point so clearly to a baby that 
1 was quite puzzled and disconcerted. It w^as a woman’s discovery 
— 1 do not suppose any man w^ould have observed it; but 1 did not 
at all know what to do with it, after 1 had found it out. 

I put them away again— I waited, waited, far into the night; 1 
would not be persuaded that it was near midnight, nor even permit 
the servants to go to rest. 1 kept the whole household up, the whole 
house alight and glowing. If he had been years instead of hours 
.away, 1 could not have made a greater preparation for him. At 
length, very late, or rather very early, in the deep, cold gloom of 
the winter morning, about twm o’clock, 1 heard horses' bools ringing 
dowm the avenue. I heard the sound before any one else did. 1 
•was at the door waiting when they came up — they! tor 1 saw with 
a momentary impulse of passionate anger and resentment that my 
husband was not alone. 

The person with him w'as a grave, plain, middle-aged man, whom 
1 bad never seen before. Edgar sprung from bis horse and came to 
me quickly— came witli an exclamation ot surprise, a look half of 
pain, half ot pleasure; but began immediately to apologize and to 
thank me for waiting till be came — thanks! 1 hastened in, 1 almost 
ran from him to restrain m3’seif ; it seemed an insult, after all 1 had 
been thinking, all 1 had been suffering; to meet my new-born hum- 
bleness with those thanks, which always wounded" me to the heart. 

And then he brought in his companion to the bright room where 
I had been trimming the lire, and spreading the table tor him, mean- 
ing to open all my mind and thoughts, to confess my sins against 
him, to make of this once cold abiding -place a genial housdiold 
liearth — he brought in here the stranger whom 1 had never seen be- 
fore. 1 he new-comer took the very chair 1 had placed for Edgar, 
and spread out his. bands over the cheerful fire. I am afraid to say 
bow 1 felt toward him and how his evident comfort and con.mon- 
place satisfaction excited me. They sat down together to the table 
— the}’- began to talk of their business, which 1 knew nothing of. 1 
was rather an unexpected embarrassment to my husband— he had 
no need then of me. 

So 1 withdrew to my room, sick at heart— mortified, disappoint- 
ed, wounded — feeling all my efforts thrown away. 1 could have 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


243 


borae it better, I tliink, but for the comfortable aspect of that 
stranger seated in my husband’s chair. 1 think 1 could have done 
him an injuiy with satisfaction and pletisure. 1 lelt a ludicrous 
grudge against him mingle with m3’ serious trouble. And this was 
how this strange day of trial, hope, and resolution came to au end. 


THE TENTH DAY. 

1 HAD been asleep — this was a privilege which seemed to belong ta 
my perfect health and vigor of frame — tor even in the midst of my" 
troubles 1 could sleep. 1 woke up Buddenly in the gray and feeble 
daylight of the winter morning to remember, in a moment, every- 
thing that had occurred last night. My own great vexation and 
disappointment were far enough off now to bear a calmer contem- 
plation, and 1 started up suddenly inspired with the growing pur- 
pose in my heart. 1 could not see how it was to he done, nor what 
my first step should he, but 1 felt, as it by an inspiration, that some- 
how, however hard it was, the wall of division between us must be 
broken down to-day. 

I hastened my simple morning toilet, and went imraedialely down- 
stairs. Breakfast was on the table — breakfast! how strange, in the 
midst of agitation and excitement like mine, seemed these common 
necessities of life. And there was tlie same chair standing in the 
same position as 1 had placed it for Edgar last night. Patience I 
but the recollection of the stranger in the house came over me like a 
cold shadow — what if he should come to interrupt us again? 

1 had Saville’s papers in my hand, and was putting them away in 
a drawer of the olil carved cabinet which 1 had brought back to 
Cottiswoode from Cambridge, when I heard tlie door open and some 
one come in. Some one! I began to tremble so mncli that 1 scarcely 
could turn my head — but 1 knew it was my husband— that he was 
alone — and that the crisis had come. He came up to me at once, 
but with no apparent agitation to counterbalance mine. Scarcely 
knowing what 1 did, I took the letters again from the drawer, and 
stood waiting for bin). Yes, he was a little excited— witli curiosity 
at least, it nothing more — he looked keenly at me and at the papers 
which trembled in my hand — and 1 wailed helplessly, unable to say 
a word, my heart fluttering to my lips. lie could not help but see 
the extreme agitation which overpowered me. 

“ Hester,” he said slowly, his voice faltering a little, ”1 heard 
vou were seeking me yesterday in Camnridge.” 

“ Yes—” 

Yes?— had you anything to say ?— 1 heard 5’oir were disturbed 
and anxious— 1 see you are tVoubled now— can 1 lu'lp you, Hester? 
It distressed me greatly to leave home without letting you know— 
hut when you hear the circumstances, 1 am sure you will pardon—” 

“Edgar! never mind,” I cried, unable to bear his explanation, 
“ don’t speak of that— don’t— oh, pray don’t speak to me like this 
to-day!” 

I put up mj' hand -1 almost grasped his arm— but he— he only 
went to bring me a chair— to draw another for himself near me. 


244 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


and to take his place there with what seemed a painful but serious 
preparation tor some lenewal of our past contests. It was a signifi- 
cant action — we were to treat — to discuss— even to advise with each 
other, after a solemn and separate fashion; nothing violent or pas- 
sionate was to come between us. But 1, who had neither calmness 
nor moderation to bring to this interview, what was 1 to do? So 
many words came rushing to my lips that 1 could not find one rea- 
sonable enough and calm enough to say. 

And glad to divert me from the personal subject, he took the 
initiative again. He looked at the papers in my hand— “ Is it some 
business matter that troubles you, Hester — are these the cause of 
your distress?— will you show them to me?” 

‘‘ By and by,” I said, ” after— afterward— first 1 have something 
else to say. Edgarl 1 want to tell you that 1 have been wrong all 
this time since ever we were married. 1 Pvant you to know that 1 
feel 1 have been wrong — very, very, miserably wron^. 1 want you 
to know; 1 can not tell how you feel now nor what is to happen to 
113 — but 1 have been wrong— 1 want you to know.” 

A violent color came to his face, rising high to his very hair. He 
rose up from his seat and went away from me the length of the 
room, with hasty and agitated steps. As for me I rose also, and 
stood trembling and breathless, looking after him. 1 could say 
nothing more— my future was in his hands. 

Then he came back, trying to he calm and self-possessed. ” Hes- 
ter,” he said, “ you told me the same when you came home, but 1 
do not see any difference it has made. We are no better than W(3 
were.” 

1 was growing sicK, sick to the very heart — but it was not in my 
nature to throw m>’self at his feet. ” Yes,” 1 exclaimed, ” but it 
is not my fault now — it is not my fault! Why do you leave every- 
thing to me?” 

Once more he started, and made a desperate effort to be calm. 
He saw the crisis had come as well as i did. and like me had no 
moderation, no composure, to bring to it. He tried hard again to 
return to an indifferent subject, to put the passion and the earnest- 
ness away. ” I will leave nothing to you, Hester, in which 1 can 
help you,” he said with a voice wliich faltered in spite of himself; 
” wliy do you agitate yourself and me with these vain discussions? 
you know very well that 1 shall thank you heartily for asking my 
assistance.” 

” Yesl” 1 cried, ” you thank me a great many times— you thank 
me always— you make ev^erytliing bitter to me by your gratitude. 
Thanks, thanks! you should keej) them for strangers. Why do you 
thank mel” 

1 had meant to humble myself— to the very dust if that was need- 
ful— and now in bitterness, feeling my repentance rejected, 1 was 
only falling into an angry despair instead— but the two things were 
not so difterent after all.* He was roused at least— at last— out of 
nil further possibility of self-control. He paced about the room, 
keeping himself down, keeping back the words from his lips. Then 
he paused for an instant before me. ” I thank you becaus*e you are 
kind,” he said abruptly; ” because— do you think lam so blind that 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 245 

I can not see all the pains you take for me? 1 know very well the 
efforts jmii make — am 1 wrong to thank you for that?” 

“ Kind!” what a word! i^choed it sharply, with a positive cry 
of pain and injury. I was kind to himi It was come to that. 

He turned upon me sharply, too; he also exclaimed with impa- 
tience, ‘‘ What can 1 say?— what would you have me to say? Other 
standing-ground seems lost between us— how am 1 to speak to you? 
What do you want?” 

1 felt the air darkening round me as if 1 w’as about to faint; but 
with a gieat effort, recovered myself. ” 1 want to speak to you,” 1 
said low and quick, with a feeling that it was not me that spoke, 
but only my voice. ” 1 have not rested since you left home. 1 
have been waiting for you, longing for you, ever since you went 
awa 3 ^ t have something to say to jmn, Edgar! No— Oh, Harry, 
Harry, Harry!” 1 cried, carried on far before my thoughts by a pas- 
Sion not to be repressed, ‘‘it is not a stranger 1 have come to. I 
want to consult my husband. 1 want you, Harry— you whom 1 
have lost so long!” 

1 know he did not come to me at once, for the darkness gathered 
close, and I threw out m)'^ arms to support myself in that terrible, 
blind, falling faintness, 1 do not know what he did, nor vvhat he 
said, nor how’ long a time it was before 1 came to m^-selt. When I 
came to myself 1 w'as seated in his chair, trembling and shaken as 
it by some great convulsion, with Harry at my side, chafing my 
liands and kneeling down lo look into my face. AVasit all a dream? 
had we never been married? never been parted? I could not tell. 
There was a ringing in my cars, and mye>'es were dim— 1 saw noth- 
ing but him, close by me, and not even him distinctly, and what 
this new thing was which had liappened to us 1 could not tell. 

At this lime 1 do not think 1 even knew that his heart was melted 
as well as mine; and whether our terrible life of separation was to 
end or to continue 1 did not ash, and could not tell. For myself, I 
sat quite still, trembling, exhausted, j-'et at ease, like one who has 
just passed the crisis of a fever: and even when he spoke, 1 scarcely 
knew what w’ords he said. 

L came to understand tliem at last— he was praising me in the 
quick revulsion of his generous heart — he had been hard to win, 
bard to move— he had shut himself up as obstinately as 1 did at first 
— and now that it was all over, he wms giving me the praise. 

The praise! but 1 w’as humbled to the depths of my heart— I did 
not even feel it a mnekerj'— 1 went back to my old, natural humble- 
ness, and save him all the merit for seeing any good in me. 1 bent 
inv head before him like a forgiven child. “Harry,” 1 said, 
“ Harry! is it all over?” AYhen he caught my look, wu'slful and 
beseeching as 1 know it was, Harry’s composure tailed liirn as mine 
had done. He was as weak as me! as glad as me! as little able to 
receive it quietly — for it was all over!— all over! vanished like a 
dream. 

“ But you are right, Hester— I should not have left it to you — 
you have punished me nobly!” cried Harry; “ had 1 done what you 
have done now, it might have been all over when you came home.” 

“ This is best,” 1 said, under my breath. 1 knew myself better 
than he did— 1 was glad of it all now— glad of everything— glad that 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


XM6 

1 liad beou clriveu desperate, and compelled to put myself rij^ht at 
last. 1 kissed my husband’s hand humbly and thanked God. 1 
had been veiy wrong — I had nearly cast away my own life — nearly 
ruined his — nearly thrown aside the best and holiest influences from 
my bo}'; but (Jrod had saved me again and again on the very edge 
of the stream, and now 1 was delivered forever. Yes, 1 might fall 
into other follies, other sins; but at once and forever 1 was delivered 
from the power of this. 

But as 1 withdrew my hand from Harry’s 1 remembered Sayille’s 
papers which were crushed together in my grasp; 1 started with an 
exclamation of pain when 1 saw them. Personal misfortune fall- 
ing on her lover may do very well to aw'ake into action the shy 
affections of a girl —but 1 couid not bear to be supposed generous 
to my husband — I trembled lest he should think so; a violent heat 
and color came to my face— 1 shut my hand again with an instinct 
of concealment. Another time! Another time would surely do — L 
daieU not disturb our happiness so soon. 

But Harry saw my sudden confusion, pain, and embarrassment. 
He took my hand again half anxiously, half playfully. “ What are 
these? — what were you going to consult me about — must 1 not 
be youi adviser now, Hester?” he said with a smile. 1 put them 
away out of my hand upon the table with momentary terror. ” Not 
now,” 1 said, eagerly, ” not now; 1 got them from your enemy, 
Saville, that man— do not look at them now.” 

His face darkened, his brow knit— once more, once more! it was 
not such a look as women love to see upon the faces of their hus- 
bands, but it made him f»;r the moment like my father, as 1 had 
once fancied him before, ” So!” he said, ” he has fulfilled his 
threat— the miserable rascal! he thought to involve my wife in it. 
Hester, is it because of these papers that you have come to me to- 
day?” 

” Oh, no, no— do not think it!” 1 cried, anxiously. ” 1 am not 
escaped long enough from my own delusions to have no fear of them ; 
do not fancy it was any secondary motive— do not, Harry! 1 could 
not bear the life we wujre living; and whenever 1 really had to speak 
to you, all that was lying in my heart burst forth, 'it was so, in- 
deed; do not take up my sin wdiere 1 leave it, Har'-y; do not sus- 
pect me — oh, we have had enough of that!” 

The tears w'ere shining in his kind eyes, I could see —he looked as 
he used to Iook in the brief charmed days before our mairiage; no, 
better than that— tor through sorrow, and bitterness, and estrange- 
ment-strange lessons! — 1 knew him now, as then I had no chance 
to know him. ” Do not fear, Hester,” he said; ‘‘ 1 am not afraid 
of your generosity. 1 told you long ago 1 could bear to be pitied 
— the only thing 1 could not bear was justice; and so long as what 
you give me is not barely my ‘ rights,’ 1 w’ill permit you to be gener- 
ous as eveu your nature can be. Now, Hester, at last may 1 speak of 
that long ago— that day when 1 came to Cottiswoode? and of the 
brave girl who brought me here, and her bit of briony? Not yet? do 
you sa}' not yet?” 

” Harry, there are graver matters first,” 1 said; “ there is a plot 
against you — they want to say — he wants to say— that— that — you 
are only Brian Southcote’s heir— you are not his sun. 1 suppose he 


THE DAYS OF MY" LIFE. 


247 

thought it woiihi give me pleasure; he told me— il is horrible! that 
Cottiswoode would be mine. lIarr}M think if this should be true, 
whal a frightful punishment to me! 1 should never have believed 
if tor a moment, had it not looked so just a penalty for all my sins 
against you. Tell me, Harry— say it is impossible that such a fatal 
mistake should be.” 

The color rose upon my husband’s face, and he raised his head 
with an involuntary gesture of pride and defiance. It was a South- 
cole face! 1 could not be mistaken— all around were the portraits 
of our race, and 1 read them with a quick inspection as my anx- 
ious eye glanced from him for a moment. He was not like Edgar 
the Scholar now. My Harry could never have planned a demon’s re- 
venge upon my unborn children— he was not like any one of them 
perhaps — but in his face 1 saw, as in a glass, reflections, momentary 
glances, of all the pictured faces round us. And when 1 turned to 
gaze upon liimselt again, once more 1 was overwhelmed with that 
shadow of my father in his resolute expression. Oh, monstrous in- 
vention ! how could any one have found all these shadowy likenesses 
in the face of a stranger? 

” Hester,” he said gravel 3 % ” when Savifle came to me last winter 
with some vatrue threats of his power to prove me an impostor, 1 
almost wished at first that 1 could have yielded to him and so re- 
stored to you the rights you were bom to. Cut a man must be very 
wretched and debased indeed when he can make up his mind to de- 
prive himself of his name. Do you remember that you forbade me 
telling you what he had come to say? 1 carefully went over then, 
both by myself and with my lawyer, the proofs wdiich were thought 
conclusive at a former time. 1 found no reason to doubt them, 
Hester- there was neither break nor weakness m the chain. Y’ou 
look at me doubtfully, wistfullj^- what do you wish me to say?” 

” That you are quite sure — quite sure,” 1 said: ” 1 am speaking 
folly, I know- but that you remember your father — that you are 
sure 3 ’ou are m 3 ’' Uncle Brian’s son.” 

” That is easily done — 1 am quite sure,” he said with perfect 
calmiuss; “hut" now, Hester, let me know what the fiction is. 
What does the fellow call me? 1 do not think his imagination is 
veiy biilliant — let me see.” 

lie took the papers— smoothed them out, and read them— at first 
with interest, then, as 1 thought, with surprise and amazement. 
“What does it mean,” he exclaimed, at last, turning to me, ‘‘I 
suppose you have the interpretation, Hester. What is all this about 
m 3 '- poor little brother? what does it mean?” 

*1 made no answer, but only looked closely at him. As he cauaht 
my eye, the color flushed to his face and he started up, ” Do you 
mean to say that he tries to identify me with my mother’s eldest 
son?” he cried with considerable e*xcitement, “is this the story? 
and her own letters- how aie they pressed into the service? is this 
what you have heard, Hester? Why do you not speak? this is what 
3 'ou have heard!” 

“ Yes,” I said, under my breath, feeling something like a culprit 
under his eye. 

And Harry began to stride about the room in considerable excite- 
ment, muttering w'ords which 1 am afraid were not very commen- 


248 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


ciatory ot Saville. “ The rascal! the villain! and only to deceive her 
— only to make my wife a party against me!” he exclaimed as he 
paced through the apartment — then gradually subduing himself, 
he came back and resumed his place by my side. 

” It it were not that the results of his scheming have blessed me 
beyond my hopes, I am afraid 1 should lack power to restrain my- 
seit,” he said, ‘‘ and all the more because this invention could only- 
have been to deceive you, Hester, tor it could not stand a mo- 
ment’s examination. 1 see what his abominable purpose was — to 
show to the world husband and wife contending with each other 
over this disputed inheritance. He must have trusted to your ig- 
norance of the world — to your own truthful and open natu’'e which 
was beyond suspicion — and, good heavens, Hester, thiuk of it! to 
your hatred of me.” 

To the very depths of m^ heart 1 was humiliated; it was a palpa- 
ble fraud then, a trick, which could only have been tried upon a 
credulous tool, a woman, or a child. My last eminence sunk be- 
neath my feet; 1 had no longer even discrimination enouirh to judge 
between the false and the true. 

“ Harry,” 1 said faltering, ” it may be only that 1 can not bear 
you to think me so toolish; but 1 think indeed it might have de- 
ceived even a wiser person than me. 1 was prepared to think it a 
lie, but it looked very like truth, Harry; indeed it is difficult to con- 
sent to it that 1 have been so very easily deceived.” 

” Ah, Hester, it all comes of our past circumstances,” said my 
husband; ” you were deceived because you did not know my story; 
shall 1 tell it to you now?” 

1 said ” Yes,” eagerly— then my eye caught the forsaken break 
fast table, the poor kettle subsided into noiseless quietness, all its 
cheerful boiling over. “But you have had no breakfast!” I ex- 
claimed. How Harry laughed, how his face shone, and the tears 
came to his eyes! Strange that it w^as always some simplest word 
that moved him most. He threw the papers down, and caught me 
in his kind arms, and rejoiced over me. These common things put 
him in mind of what had happened to us, of the life that lay before 
us now, the union that began to-day. 

And when 1 began to arrange the breakfast once more, to put the 
kettle on the fire, and ring for hot coffee, and arrange his neglected 
meal for him, he sat looking at me, nor caiing to do anything else, 

1 thought— and it was strange what a pleasure 1 found in these 
housewifely matters. I believe when one comes to the very tiuth. 
When youth and its first romances are over, that there is no such 
pleasure for a woman as in these little domestic services, which are 
natural to her. How gladly and lightly 1 went about them! and my 
heart was full. 1 could not he content without the third little mem- 
ber ot our family; 1 ran upstairs and brought down in my arms 
our beautiful boy. 1 think we were happy enough at that moment 
to make up for a whole year’s trouble; and when Amy came into the 
room for baby, seme time after, 1 saw her joyous, astonished glance 
from one to another, for Harry was dancing his son in his arms, 
and 1 was standing close by looking on, talking and clapping my 
hands to him. Amy did not like to be inquisitive or ” unmannerly,’" 
but in the simplicity of her heart she gave me such u wistful, ques- 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


249 

tioning, delighted look when 1 pnt baby into her anna. Poor Amyl 
involuntaiily 1 patted her stout shoulder with my hand as she went 
away, and 1 knew very well she went immediately to tell hei tale ot 
a new era to Alice— 1 saw it in her face. 

And then Harry gathered np these scattered papers and drew my 
arm within his, and led me to the library; how strangely this room 
was connected with the principal events in my life! WeVent to the 
pretty recessed corner where my hours of girlish study used to be 
spent, and there my husband told me for the first time the story of 
his young life. 

“ 1 remember that 1 CDuld once recollect my father, Hester,” he 
said, ” bin 1 think that is all. IMy mother 1 remember well enough; 
and 1 have the most perfect recollection of the stone in memory of 
Brian Southcote to which she used to lead me, and the little grave 
'dose by, where 1 have seen her prostrate herself in passionate sor- 
row, and where my little brother, ffarry Southern, lay. This little 
brother fills up a great part of my earliest memoiy. He was a blight 
and shadc'Y upon my life, though 1 was full of vague, childish 
sympathy and admiration for him. He had died just before my 
mother’s second marriage, and when 1 was born i was named after 
him, and my mother’s greatest desire seemed to he to make me a 
sort of shadow of her best-beloved child. 1 recollect quite well her 
frequent exclamation: ‘ Your father calls j'ou Edgar, but you are 
Harry tome — alwa3's Harry to me— not my lost Harry, but, at least, 
his name — oh! 1 can not give up his name.’ 1 suppose 1 was preco- 
cious. as lonely children are so often; and 1 do not think I was quite 
satisfied even then to be only the reflection of another. However, 
that time was followed b.y a dismal one of friendlessness and soli 
tude. And then a sailor brother of the Savilles came by chance with 
his ship to Jamaica. My poor mother had been in regular corre- 
spondence with her cousin. Miss Saville, and the brother was com- 
missioned to find me out— 1 came home to England with him; all 
that my father had left me in Jamaica had got into very uncertain 
hands by that time, and, though the amount sounded well, it was, 1 
am afraid, only a fabulous inheritance, and 1 was a very poor child 
indeed wdien our good rector here, then a poor curate, took me in, 
and gave me shelter. I owed everything to their kindness, Hester — 
they were humble people, and 1 liad ‘ no claim upon them ’ as peo- 
ple say— but they w^ere angels of charity to me. 

“ A year or two after I came to England, the attorney brother 
came ilowm to London to visit them. He was not then w’hat he is 
now — he vvas unscrupulous, and noi very respectable perhaps, but 
he had a good deal of acuteness, and was prudent enough to restrain 
his evil appetites. In mere idleness at first, he began investigating 
who 1 belonged to, as he called it. There had been a rumor in the 
family that my poor mother had made a great match;' and Saville 
soon discovered what his simple relatives never could have discovered, 
who Brian Southcote was, and what his heir was entitled to. My 
father had been a man of foolish benevolence— he had taken no 
precautions for me— done nothing that he could help — so that it re- 
quired no small research, and perseverance, and industry, to get 
proofs of my identity together. 1 always disliked the man, but 1 
was indebted to him; and during the whole time of my minority he 


250 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


restricted my iiieans <ireatly. Then when 1 came of age 1 pensioned 
him — but he has not been satisfied with this; he has l^radually 
fallen in character, and habits, into the miserable reprobate who is 
nothing but disgrace to his kind kindred who will not disown him. 
1 have been obliged to resist his exactions again and again— and 
after he threatened me, of course my honor was concerned, and 1 
could not permit m^^self to be bullied into further concessions. 
These letters, you see, are addressed to Miss Saville— are j^ou able to 
go to the Rectory with me, Hester, and hear her account of her 
cousin’s children? and we will see this man together. The facts are 
very simple, plausible as this fiction is; but Harry Soutl.ern was five 
or six years old befoie my father’s marriage — did not that occur to 
you, my timid wife?” 

“ Yes — yes,” 1 said eagerly; “a great many things occurred to 
me — 1 felt almost sure that the first of these letters referred to an 
older child than the others; but 1 had no clew — nothing to guide 
me, and the thought that it might be true was enough to make me 
miserable. 1 am quite able — 1 promised to let hiur know what I 
would do— come, come, let us go at once, Harry.” 

He smiled at my eagerness now, but went first to his desk, un- 
locked it, and a concealed drawer in it, and drew from thence a lit- 
tle bundle of papers; one was a certificate of his parents’ marriage, 
the other of the birth of Harry Edgar Southcote; and other corrobo- 
rative documents. 1 returned them to him hastily. I was almost 
offended; ” Wtiy do you offer me these,” 1 said, impatiently, “is 
your word not enough for me?” “You must consider what is 
enough for law and the world, tiester,” said my husband; “ enough 
to secure to our boy an unbkmished name— he is the principal per- 
son to be considered in this argument; though there is no fear of 
his inheritance between us, we must take care to establish his per- 
fect right to be called Southcote. Afy family pride is all of j^our 
teaching— but I have caught it fully now. Shall you get ready then? 
Ah, Hester, is all this niahtmare that is past only a dream?” 

“ Only a dream, Harry, only a dream!” l cried, as we stood to- 
gether hand in hand; so much a dream that I scarcely could sup- 
pose now how it had been with us 3 ^esterday — and when at last i 
left him to get my bonnet, 1 ran upstairs almost with a lighter foot 
than Flora’s; the cloud was gone— gone- absolutely gone; and in- 
stead of being skeptical of my own happiness, it was the miseiy now 
that 1 was skeptical of— 1 could scarcely believe it, scarcely under- 
stand how 1 could have defied and rejected all these blessings of 
Providence so long. 

When I went into my room, Alice was there, looking excited, 
heated, full of anxiety and trouble. How hastil}’’ she tied the rib- 
bons of baby’s cloak, and sent Amy away with him! how impatient 
she looked while I bent over him, and kissed the sweet face which 
brightened every day into more beautiful intelligence! Then she 
waited to know what 1 wanted, and when 1 told her what it was, 
she came behind me, arranging my cloak upon my shoulders with 
tremulous hands — and I caught a glimpse of her wistful agitated 
face looking at me in the glu'^s, trying to read in my eyes ^^hat had 
happened to me. As she did this, I turned round upon her sud- 
denly, and looked full in her face; she faltered, retired a little, and 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 251 

1 saw was almost crying with extreme agitation and anxiety. 1 took 
both her hands and drew her very close to me. 

“ Alice, can you believe it,” said I, “ God has cured me by great 
blessings, and not by great calamities, as you once feared he would. 
It is all over— it is all over, there will never be anymore misery 
in this house. Have you been praying for it, Alice? Is it through 

YOU?” 

” Oh, my darling, my precious child,” cried Alice, suddenly 
clasping me in her arms as if 1 had been a child indeed; ” it’s 
through His mercy! I’d be glad to die now!” 

” Hush, hush, hush! there would be little joy then,” said i, whenl 
was able to draw myself from her arms, ” we are all to be very happy 
now', Alice, like a fairy tale.” 

” Like them that love God,” said Alice solemnly. 

I bowed my bead; these words overpowered me. Was it He who 
bad guided me ihrough all those dark and willful ways? He wdro 
had filled me with the fruit of my own doings; given me my own 
will, till 1 knew w^hat a miserable inheritance that was? He who 
Lad saved my baby; at whose feet I had prostrated myself, vowing 
to sacrifice the sin which 1 regarded in my heart? 1 bent my head into 
my hands and wept. 1 think every tear was a thanksgiving, for 
they relieved m3' heart. 

That Rectory lane! how dull it used 10 be— how full of beautiful 
life it was to-day. iVe did not look mirch as it we w^ere going 
about a serious piece of business — we were so occupied and ab- 
sorbed with ourselves — and it never once occurred to me w'hat 
should be said to iSaville till we were enterinit at the Rectory gate. 
On the road my husband told me — a very strange coincidence too — 
that the stranger who accompanied him last night, and for wdiom 
he had left a message, had sought him out about the lost West 
Indian property, which still might be recovered. When we came at 
last to the Rectory, 1 asked, ” ^Vhat will 3'ou .«!ay to Saville, Harry?” 
but there was no time to answ'er my question. IMiss Saville met 
us in the hall— she looked distuit)ed, alarmed, anxious— she knew 
our visit must have some reference to my yesterday’s conference 
W’ith her brother, and she was very anxious for him. 1 ran to her 
eagerly, took her hand, and kissed her. 1 was very little "iven to 
this species of affect ionateness, and she was completely taken by 
surprise. ” Mrs. Southcote, my dear, what is it?” she said, sink- 
ing dow'n upon one of the stiff hall chairs, and doing what she 
could to keep herself from crying. ” Hester never knew before 
how' much 1 owed to you,” said Harry, coming to my help, for 
indeed 1 was nothing loath to cry too! ” Come, dear friend, we 
want your kind assishmee. Where is the rector— and Richard— but. 
Miss Saville, let us first speak to you.” 

«he led the w^ay into a liltle housekeeping parlor, which was her 
own special sanctuary, and there sat down liembling 10 hear what 
we had to say. Then Harry told her the entire story; she w'as 
grievously distressed. She could not bear to blame her brother, 
yet the way in which he had taken advantage of her wounded her 
to the heart. “My letters!” she said faintly— ” Dear boy, dear 
Harry, you don’t think 1 ever meant to do harm to 3’ou? He made 
me give him poor Maria’s letters to amuse him, he said— he’s got 


252 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


them all— can they do you any harm? can they?— tell me!— for he’s 
got them all.” 

“They can do me no harm— thej’^ have done me the greatest 
good,” said Harry, “ tliey have restored to me my wife; but 1 must 
see him in your j^resence, and have this matter set at rest. He must 
be mad to think ot injuring me by such an expedient as this.” 

“ Hush! i sometimes think,” said Miss Saville, under her breath,. 
“ that it is telling on his mind — I do, indeed, fie raves of nights; 
and v^hateve^ William and 1 can say, he won’t give up that dread- 
ful drinking; he’ll kill himself, Harry dear— that’s what he’ll do — 
and such a man as he was once — oh, such a man as he might have 
been!” 

And tears of love and anguish— love, most undeserved, most 
long-suftering — tell slowly and bitterly from this good woman’s 
eyes. 1 had scorned her once, but 1 felt veiy poor and mean beside 
her now. 

Vriien she had sufficiently composed herself, she took us into an- 
other room, and left us to bring her brothers. The rector came im- 
mediately, the other refused. Miss Saville returned in gi-eat disii'ess 
to say that he would not come— that he refused to see us— that 1 
had broken faith with him. 

“ We must goto him, then,” said my husband, steadily; “the 
rector will give you his arm, Hester. Do not be nervous. Miss 
Saville — this must be settled — but he shall be spared, be sure. Come, 
lean upon me — my kind old friend, can yoi: not trust n e?” 

“ Oh, yes, yes!” she said, but her distress was so great and evi- 
dent that 1 scarcely could bear it. We went in this solemn order — 
tire rector, in great perturbation, giving me his arm, but looking 
afraiil of me, to the study. iSaville was sitting smoking by the tire- 
— he started up, and dashed his cigar to the ground as w'e entered— 
he turned fiercely round upon us lilve a wild beast at bay, and asked, 
with an oath, W’hat v/as the meaning of this — was he never to be left 
alone? 

“Yes, in half an hour,” said my husband; “but first 1 must 
speak to you, Saville, you have been a very good friend to me — 
1 acknowledge it — you know 1 have always been glad to say as 
much. What motive could you have to tell this false story — this 
story you know so well to be false— to my wife!” 

“ Motive? — 1 had motive enough, you may be sure,” answered 
Saville, shortly — “ that is my concern — it is yours to prove the story 
false, as you call it— false! what do you know about it— Iheie’s not 
1 man qualified to speak on the subject but me.” 

“Oh! Richard! Richard!” cried Miss Saville; “ poor Maria's let- 
ters— was that the use you wanted to make of them? But you 
know very well it is not true. William and 1 know it is not true; 
and to tell it to his wife— oh, for shame, for shamel” 

“ Give me back the papers,” said the man, l -oarsely, holding out 
his hand to me. 

1 was surprised to sec Harry lake them out at once and hand them 
to him. 1 would have kept possession of them, for they were still 
important and dangerous to me. 

He held them in his hands a moment as if undecided, and then 
tossed them on the table, where they fluttered about like scraps of 


THE DAYS OE MY LIFE. 


253 

useless paper, as they were. “ 1 thought you had a serpent in your 
house,” he said, looking at Harry—” 1 owed her a grudge as well 
as you; but if you are in league, 1 had as well give up the contest. 
I’ll tell you what — give me cash enough to take me somewhere— 
America— Australia— ] don’t care \\ here it is, 1 don’t want to see 
one of you again, and you’ll be rid of me.” 

Miss Saville started as if about to speak, but restrained herself 
— glanced at her brother, and closed her eyes, growing very pale; 
bad as he was, she could not bear the thought of an everlasting 
parting — he was her brother still. 

” 1 will do this,” said Harry, quietly, ‘‘ but it must not be done 
so that your perverse ingenuity can make it look like a bribe. Will 
you come to Cottiswoode to-morrow?— the rector will come with 
you— come as a man should come who dares look other men in the 
face — on my part, 1 will have a friend fit to cope with you, and set- 
tle this business once and forever; — do you consent?” 

He did not speak for a moment — he was hemmed in and saw no 
W’ay of escape; he searched about with his cunning eyes in the 
vacant air, but saw no expedient. ” 1 consent!” he said, sullenly 
” anything for peace. Leave me alone, for heaven’s sake— there,, 
there, Martha, take your remonstrances away!” 

We left him so — and Harry did not even take the trouble of 
gathering up these pieces of paper. ” They are quite harmless, 
Hester,” he said to me with a smile when 1 spoke of them, and I 
was obliged to be satisfied with that. 

Then we went into Miss Saville’s little parlor again — the rector 
and she were consulting anxiously together. The rector was sadly 
clouded and cast down— he 'was a good man, but he was w^eaker 
than his sister. 

“ Yes, it is much better 1 should go,” she said; ” 1 will go wdth 
Richard. Mr. Southcote— Harry!— if you are to have a stranger 
present lei me come instead of the rector — it might be awkward for 
William — he might meet the gentleman again; and consider lie is 
a clergyman, and must not do anything unbecoming his station. 
1 will come with poor Richard — it will do as well, will it not?” 

” Quite as well,” said my husband; ” belter, indeed, except that 
it will grieve you.” 

” It will not grieve me so much as it would grieve William,” she 
said quickly; and that point was settled. 

” Dear Miss Saville, it is through me this distress has come upon 
you,” 1 said, as she went out wdth us to the door. 1 looked up to 
her anxiously, now that 1 had come to esteem her so much. 1 was 
afraid she must think very little ot me. 

” My dear, it will be all settled through you,” said Miss Saville, 
” and that will be a blessing — 1 am glad it has come to this— very 
glad in my spirit, though it’s hard to the llesh. William will have 
peace at last!” 

She went in abruptly as w'e left the door; she could not keep her 
composure any longer. With a woman’s sympathetic instinct, 1 
knew she was gone away with her burden, to try if she could lighten 
it by tears. 

“Harry,” 1 said, gravely, when we went away, “she is not 
young, nor pretty, nor clever, nor interesting— people don’t lov& 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


254 

her even when they only see her as 1 used to do. What has such a 
woman to reward her tor the neglects and slights that are her por- 
tion now?” 

” Patience and hope here, nothing more, Hester,” said Harry; 
“ not even William loves her as she loves him— nothing but hope 
and patience — poor Martha! — and in the world to come, life ever- 
lasting. That is enough for her.” 

Enough for any one, surely, surely!— hut God has made a difler- 
■ence bstween her life and ours. 


ANOTHER DAY. 

It was little Harry’s birthday. 

He was standing before me in the little fanciful dress of blue vel- 
vet which Alice and Amy, no less than myself, thought so particu- 
larly becoming to his beautiful complexion, and in which he had 
already made a grand appearance, and stood at full leneth in a 
wonderful gilt frame, upon the wall of the dining-room down- 
stairs, for the admiration of all the visitors at Cottiswoode, and the 
instruction of future ages. 1 was seated in the nursery proper, a 
large room, which communicated with my dressing-room, with 
‘‘something nice” upon my knee — something which w'as amaze 
ol fine muslin, of lace, and embroidery, almost richer, if that were 
possible, than Harry’s baby robes had been — and of wliich the onlv 
legible token of humanity was a pair of blue eyes shining through 
the maze of the pretty veil; blue e3’^es, the ” sweetest eyes that e’er 
were seen ” to my husband and to me. 

1 had been so very anxious about this little one— so overwhelmed 
witli suirerstilious awe and terror lest this should be the fated sec- 
ond boy, the inheritor of that w'eird and ghostly jewel; but 1 w'as 
suiTering Harry now to turn round and round upon my finger the 
hereditary diamond. Thus tar, at least, the spell was broken. The 
blue eyes belonged to a little girl — a little Helen Ennerdale, a sw’eet 
representgtive of her whose sweet and peaceful face was always 
with me. 1 feared my ring no longer, I had even placed it sport- 
ively on baby’s little finger, and promised Alice in the lightness of 
my heart that this w^as the woman, the Southcote born, from 
whose finger this pledge of family misfortune was to fall. 

For I was now a iia^py young matron — a thrice happy mother; 
yes, Mr. Osborne was right— I was a girl at heart— 1 grew younger 
every day. Since my little girl w^as born, Alice herself, wdio would 
not have thought the crowm jewels too fine for me, had looked on 
with amazement at the additions wdiich 1 made to my wardrobe. 
Ttre love of all tliese pretty things— tne feminine pleasure in them, 
for their own sake — had growui and blossomed in me ever since 1 
became a happy wife. Do you say that was no very great result to 
have arrived at? No, neither it was, if it had been a result, but it 
was only ari indication. 1 was no longer inditTerent to anything 
— i had a liking, a choice, an opinion, in every daily matter of 
my life. I lived these bright days heartily, caring for everything, 
doing everything with a will— my heart was no longer dwelling ab- 


THE DAYS OF HY LIFE. 


255 


stracted in some course of private thoughts, of recollections, or 
broodiugs. My heart was in my work and in my pleasure, and had 
to do w’ith all 1 was engaged in. All those blessings that came 
fresh to me from God’s hands — should! have taken them grudging- 
ly? No, 1 received them with all my heart. 

It was Harry’s birthday— he was three years old; and we were 
just about setting out with his little sister to the church to add her 
to the number of those on whom the name of the Lord is named. 
Alice, in tbe silk gown she had worn at my marriasre, was standing 
b}" me, ready to (airy the little neophyte down-stairs, while Amy 
w’aited behind with her bright, good-humored face and holiday 
dress, to follo\v in our train. It w’ as a beautiful day of June, warm 
and sunny, the windows were open, the sw^eet air, rich with the 
breath of flowers, blew from window to window, stirring tlie veil 
about this sweet new face. There were flowers everywhere, sweet 
bouquets of roses— it was a double holiday, a day of family joy. 1 
could not have the house sufficiently bright nor sufficiently adorned. 
And there was Harry — the elder Harry — looking in at the d( or, 
making a pretense of hiding us for delay, but, in reality, looking at 
the group which belonged to him, with joy wdiich was too great lor 
words. And then we set out in our joyful solemn procession, Alice 
going first that we might not lose sight of the young newcomer. 
My pretty Flora, now- quhe an expeiieuced young wile, was stand- 
ing beside Miss Saville. waiting for us down stairs — these were to be 
m}’’ little Helen’s godmothers; the one a beautiful, happy young 
woman, rich in all the gifts of this world; the other, drawing near 
the frost of age— homely, stiff, ceremonious, noways beautiful. 
What a strange contrast they were! but 1 would rather have been 
without Flora than without my husband’s kindest friend. 

Mr. Osborne, who was also with us, gave his arm to Flora— like 
other people, he preferred the youthful beauty to the elderly good- 
ness — Miss Saville came with Harry and me. As we went down the 
lane she talked to us of our duties; how we should educate our 
children; and of the system of religious instruction she should think 
it her dul}'’ to adopt with baby when she was old enough; while 
little Harry looked up with amazement from my side, and privately 
whispered to me to ask if Miss Saville was scolding papa and mani- 
ma. Harry ilid not comprehend how the infallible authorities of 
his little world should be lectured by anybody, and varied between 
amusement and indignation. We, for our own parts, took it with 
great good humor and respect, though, perhaps, it did not do us 
much good— for Miss Saville belonged to a by -gone age, and to a 
class wdiich greatly abounds in system— though 1 by no means de- 
spised her counsels and wisdom in training the little heir of Cottis- 
wmode, who, long ago, had shown unmistakable signs of possessing 
“ a will of his own.” 

How beautiful the day was!— those glorious measureless depths of 
blue, yon floating snow-white islands— were they clouds or sun- 
shine?— that curdled broken line, in its long oblique streaks, a vague 
beatitude of light and vapor, a real milky way. Then the green 
borders of the lane, with its tiny ej^es of flowers looking through 
the matted herbage; the clear little rivulet of water singing through, 
the n'jieadow'; the wiHows rustling their long branches as though 


:256 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


vainly longing tor the water, which these bristling boughs will never 
reach— 1 had the spring ot returning strength, of added blessings - 
everything to be thankful tor. 1 felt as it every step 1 took was 
somehow an expression ot ihankfiilness. I was in no mood to listen 
to any discourse --my thoughts were all abroad upon thelresh air 
and sunshine, mv heart was singing its own quiet song ot jubilee 
and gratitude — 1 am afraid all the lectures in the world would have 
been lost on me. 

And then we clustered round the humble font, in the homely 
little country cnurch, many a kindly looker-on from the village fol- 
lowing us softly, on tiptoe, to see the ceremony — that ordinance of 
-all others most touching, most solemn, most simple, most like the 
first instinctive wish of nature. To claim by name and sign the 
protection ot God tor this little child, to lay dowm her helplessness, 
visibly in the sight ot men, at the feet of the only stiength thai is 
Omnipotent, the only love that is Almighty; to say aloud before 
our neighbors, “ She belongs to us only because she beongs tol'hee 
—she shall be ours forever, living or dying, because she and we are 
T'hine.” 1 leaned heavily upon my husband’s arm, and looked up 
into his face. Harry’s eyes were wet and glistening as mine were 
— we had not been together when our eldest born was dedicated 
thus, and it had been a hard, sad day to me— but the joy of this was 
almost more than 1 could bear. 

When we left the church it was not in the nature ot mortal 
woman to help lingering to hear the plaudits which the admiring 
mothers of Cottisbourne bestowed upon my little Helen; some of 
-them remembered my mother, and prophesied that this was to be 
“her very image” — others, loyal to the reigning monarchs, were 
divided as to whether she should be like her tuther or her mother— 
))ut there was no doubt about the principal tact, that such a beauti- 
ful baby never was seen. Little Harry by this time had deserted 
me for Amy, and the rest ot the party had gone on before, so that 1 
had only the rector for my companion — the rector, w’ho, good man, 
had lingered with his natural ceremonious politeness, waiting for 
me. Mr, Saville was not great al conversation — and after we had 
exchanged a few remarks about the village and the parish, and the 
work wdiich he w’as doing in both, 1 was much surprised when he, 
of his own accord, began another subject — 

“ We have heard from my brother in Australia to-day, Mrs. 
Southcote,” he said; “ Miss Saville is somewhat agitated— did you 
not observe it?” 

“ No, indeed,” 1 said. “ Is it painful news? — oh, 1 hope not— or 
we only have been troubling her to-day.” 

“ The trouble is an honor, madam,” said my reverend compan- 
ion, with one of his elaborate bows; “ and the news is — not painful, 
certainly. My brother Richard, though unfortunate, w^as a man 
of mind— alw'ays a man of mind. Mis. Southcote — and has, 1 am 
glad to say, recovered himself in his new sphere, as we are led to 
hope— he has, indeed,” and here the rector sighed a small sigh— 
“ married since he w^ent, abroad— and with Mr. Southcote’s liberal 
allowance 1 have no doubt he will do w'ell.” 

And again the excellent rector sighed. Why did the good man 


• _ THE DAYS OP MY LIPE. 257 

sigh? “ You do not disapprove of his marriage, Mr. Saville?” said 
1, in my ignorance. 

“ Disapprove! no— far be it from me to disapprove of an honor- 
able estate,” said the rector, looking wistfully up at ihe windows of 
the Rectory as we passed. ” 1 have no doubt if Ricliaid is merci- 
fully supported in his changed ways be will be a happy man; but 
there are many men who never have it in their powder to consult 
their own inclinations, Mrs. Southcote,” he continued, with a senti- 
mental air, shaking his head slightly, and looking after his sister 
who was walking before us. 1 could not help blushing, though 1 
was very much inclined to laugh— and 1 hurried on immediately 
to rejoin my husband, tor I was afraid that the rector was about to 
make a confidant of me. 

The good man looked liisappointed, but succumbed into his 
usual grim politeness, asl hastened on and took Harry’s arm. IVly 
heart smote me when 1 saw his blank look, but 1 could not bear, 
knowing what a good man he was, to see him look ridiculous; and 
1 am very much afraid that the rector’s love-sorrows would have 
been little else to me. 

Harry was in great glee and most exuberant spirits. “ What do 
you think, Hester?” lie cried, in a half-whisper, whenever we were 
sufficiently far apart from our companions—” the rector’s going to 
be married — there’s news for you — what do you think of that?” 

” 1 am sure there is nothing at all laughable in it, Harry,” said 
1, taking the opportunity, gladly, to resent, my own strong inclina- 
tion to laughter upon him. 

Harry did not cease for my reproof, but his laugh was inward 
and subterraneous. “We must have the thing done in grand style,” 
he said, ” and astonish the bashful bridegroom by the reception we 
give him. Did they tell you the Ethiopian had changed his skin, 
Hester?— that Richard had ‘ settled ’? 1 suppose 1 ought to be glad 
to believe it— but 1 have no faith in that fellow. And now what 
can we do for Martha — my kindest friend? — not that 1 don’t thank 
you, with all my heart, Hester, for what you have done already — 
she will never forget the honor you have given her to-day.” 

” 1 know exactly what we must do for her, Harry,” said 1. 

” Do you?” he said, looking down upon me affectionately; 
” since when have you turned a good fairy, my rebellious wife?” 

“Hush, Harry!” 1 said. “If 1 had not been your rebellious 
wife and very miserable once, 1 don’t think I ever should have been 
good tor anything; but 1 know quite well what we must do for Miss 
Saville to make her quite happy; you must see about building her a 
pretty, large, roomy cottage near Cottisbourne immediately, Harry.” 

“ Must If” said my obedient husband, “ and pray, Mrs. Hester, 
it one might ask a reason— why?” 

“ Because it was her own project, her own desire— and it was in 
my black time,” 1 said sadly. ” 1 will tell you all abdut it after— 
but that is what you must do.” 

“ When was your black time, Hester?” said Harry. “Was it 
when you and all the world were in mourning— when you found 
out that you had been deceived?” 

“Don’t, don’t! 1 can’t bear you to speak so,” 1 cried. “ It never 
9 


258 


THE HAYS OF MY LIFE. 

was your fault — never, Harry! Why must 1 not speak? what, 
you will not hear me? you are a tyrant, sir!” 

” Very well,” said Harry, laughing, ” so be it— we will not quar- 
rel over whose fault it was; but we know by whose blessing it is a 
white time now,” he added more gravely, “ and your orders sball 
be obeyed, though 1 will not call you a tyrant. 1 shall be glad to 
have Martha Saville still near us, and 1 think now it would be rather 
a lieartbreak for her to part from these childien and you.” 

lie was quite right, though 1 wondered at it— Miss Saville had in- 
deed grown fond of me. That she should love little Harry w^as 
nothing wonderful, but 1 was both proud and amazed at her allec* 
tion for me. 

We were to have a good many people with us that evening, and 
when Harry went up to the nursery with me to see the children, 
and how baby looked after her churchgoing, 1 started so much that 
1 almost Jet my little Helen fall from my arms, when 1 drew off my 
glove — ” My ring — my ring! what has become of it? 1 am sure 1 
liad it on my finger when 1 w^ent out,” I cried. ” Alice, did you 
see it? 1 must have drawn it oft with my glove.” 

Amy, Alice, the two Harries, great and little, were immediately 
searching for it in every corner; it w^as not to be found. ” ft is 
your father’s ring, is it not, Hester?” said m.V husband ; ” you have 
dropped it in the church, most likely. 1 shall walk down immedi- 
ately, and see; don’t be uneasy— it can not be lost— any one who 
found it would know it for yours.” 

” Oh, Harry, stop! 1 am not uneasy,” 1 cried eagerly; ” wait a 
little, there is no hurry — pray don’t go at all,' then— 1 do not care — 
1 shall be very glad it it is lost.” 

“ What do you mean, Hester?” he cried in amazement. 

1 took him aside and whispered all the story into his ear; but 
Harry was skeptical, and laughed at my superstition. ” "^^'liy, tlien, 
the ring is not yours, Hester,” he said, laughing, ” but your second 
son’s — and you have no right to lose other people's property so cool- 
ly. Never fear, we will exorcise the demon — and, even on your own 
showing, it is better to look after it, that the mysterious i^owers who 
have it in charge may know you were unwilling to lose it. Now, 
let me go.” 

1 was obliged to let him go, though very reluctantly— and when 
he went away, Flora came running upstairs to condole with me. 

” Oh, Hester, have you lost your beautiful ring?” cried Flora; 
‘‘ and do you know Mr. Soiitbcote is laughing about it, and says 
j’^ou do not want to find it again; tell me the stor}’^— do tell me the 
story, Hester! Mr. Osborne has gone with him, and the rector and 
;Mi8S Saville are in very earnest conversation, and 1 %vant my little 
goddaughter — oh, Hester, 1 do so wish you would give her to me!” 

Yes, Flora was very envious; so we permitted her to hold the 
young lady in her arms, while Alice told her the story of Edgar the 
Scholar, and his revenge. Flora was very much awed by it, and 
full of eager interest now for the return of Harry; ” She hoped — 
she did so hope, that he would never find that dreadful ring— she 
should be quite frightened to look at it again!” 

For my part, 1 was also a little anxious about it; but Harry’s good 
example and my own light heart, brought me out of the power of 


THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 


259 


the supernatural. 1 knew already that love and peace reigned at 
Cottiswoode— that my own sins, my mother's wrongs, the lifelong 
sin and punishment ot my father, had found a merciful conclusion 
in the happy family lite which once moie consecrated with daily 
thanksgiving the ancient family home. The constant feuds between 
the elder and the younger had merged in tlie perfect union ot the 
two branches ot our house. God and Providence were with us, and 
we could aftord to smile at mystery and fate. 

But the ling was not to be found; though it was sought for In 
every direction, rewards offered, and every means tried— for Harry 
w'as obstinate in his endeavors to recover it— the ring of Edgar the 
Scholar never returned to Cottiswoode. 1 do not mean to confess 
that 1 am still superstitious about it— for, of course, such a jewel as 
that was no small prize, and some stranger might have picked it up 
upon the road, and 1 have no doubt did— yet it was very fctrange, it 
must be admitted, that it should disappear so. We have not only a 
second son now, but a third, and a fourth! and Cottisw'oode is al- 
most overflowing, and our patrimonial acres will have enough to do 
to provide tor all the children with whom God has blessed us Sor- 
row has been in our house— sickness— once death — but strife has 
never entered at the peaceful doors ot Cottiswoode; and 1 should 
smile now, with the smile of perfect confidence and security, did 
any one whisper to me that discord could come between Harry and 
his brave brother Brian, our little knijrht-errant— our St. Georire — 
our eager champion of the distressed. The children are God’s 
children — 1 do not tremble for them; and life comes to have a very 
diflerent aspect, wdth all its unknown haps and chances, when one 
can say Providence, heartily, instead of Fate. 


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244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

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245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of ” His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. '' 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of ” Dora Tliorne ” !• 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

251 The Daughter of tJie Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of ” Called Back” 16 

252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita ”. . 10 
2.53 The Amazon, By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 
” Dora Thorne ” IQ 

255 The IMystery. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 15 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

Ry L. B. Walford S* 


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257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
Mouce-Cristo.” By Alexander 

Dumas 10 

SGO Proper Prfde. By B. M. Croker 10 
201 A Fair Maid. By F.W. Robinson 20 
£62 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 
262 The Count of Monte Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 
363 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 


Braddou 15 

£64 Piddouche, A French Detective. 

By Fortund Du Boisgobey — 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 15 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fairy Tale - 

for a Laud-Baby. By the Rev. 
Charles Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Cpnspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 

Miser’s Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Marry at... 10 

273 Love and Mii*age ; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Beth am Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides, Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses, By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Woi*d. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

^9 Little Goldie. Mrs, Sumner Hay- 
den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. E'orrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George Blac- 

Donald 15 

*83 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
Doris. By “ The Duchess ” , . 10 


NO. PRICE. 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

286 Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”. . . 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “Brutal 


Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

292 A Golden Heart, By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” lo 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Tw'O Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

808 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week in Killaruey. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller.. ^ 


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817 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

Gibbon 20 

818 The Pioneers; or. The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

819 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

820 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

S21 The Prodigals; And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

892 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

m A Willful Maid 20 

824 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

130Sd>tit) 10 

825 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

826 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 10 

'127 Ravmond!s Atonement. (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 

828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 

829 The Polish Jew. ByErckmann- 

Chatrian 10 


830 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee.... 20 

831 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

832 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

833 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil, By Frank E. Smedley 20 

834 A Marriage of Convenience. By 


Harriett Jay 10 

835 The White Witch. A Novel.... 20 

836 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

837 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

838 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

839 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

840 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

841 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

842 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “ The Duchess ” . . . . 10 


844 “ The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

845 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant.... 20 

846 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

847 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

848 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance. By Hawley Smart 9® 


NO. PRica 

349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 29 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

851 The House on the Moor. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago, By John Brougham... 2f 

355 That Terrible Man. By W, E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 


Felbermann 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 2i 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood *. . . . 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper . 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 


368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland, By Mrs, Oli- 

phant 90 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of ” His Wedded Wife ”. 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper 90 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret ; or. The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 

375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 


Guards 20 

376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 10 

377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story 

of the Scottish Reformation. 

By Mrs. Oliphant SO 


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8<8 Homeward Bound; or. The 
Chase. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

879 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”; By J. 
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880 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper.. 20 

881 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters*, or, Sketclies of 
a Hij^hly Original Family. 

By Elsa D'Esterre-Keeling. .. 10 
883 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 


ilton Ai'de 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby. 20 

385 The Headsman ; or, The Abbaye 

des Vignerons. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “La Petite Comt- 

esse.” By Octave E’enillet... 10 
887 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 
Charlotte French 20 


888 Addie’s Husband; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “Love or Lands?” 10 

889 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

890 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 


Duchess” 10 

891 The Heart of Mid-Lothlan. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

892 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

893 The Pirate. By Sir AValter Scott ^ 

894 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

895 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

Jules A^erne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 


of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

898 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

899 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-AVish. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir AValter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 
Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 

ridge 20 

404 In Durance A^ile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ”. 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

uel AVarren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 
108 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s AVife. By G. J AATiyte- 

Melville 20 

110 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

piiant 10 


NO. PRICK. 

411 A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The AVays of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine’s Da}'. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

419 The Chain bearer ; or. The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 


421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J.Feniniore (hooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or. The Lost 


Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings ; or, The Bee- 

Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 2W 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

w'orth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
formerly known as “Tommy 
Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Z6ro : A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 

429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and 

Old Populations. By Wiliam 
Sime 10 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. By the 

author of “By Crooked Paths” 10 

431 The Monikins. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

432 The AVitch’s Head. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne,” and A Rainy June. 

By “ Ouida ” 1V> 

434 Wyl lard’s Weird. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 26 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By Geoi-ge Taylor.... 20 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 29 


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